


I Found

by undermyskin



Category: Girls Aloud, One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, This ship has so much fanfictional potential
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 10:07:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11987610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undermyskin/pseuds/undermyskin
Summary: He smiles like he's forgiving, but the kiss that follows only tastes of disappointment to her.Or the Liam Payne, Cheryl story that nobody asked for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I love them both dearly. I did before they got together.
> 
> It pains me to see how she has been vastly treated, by so many fans.
> 
> Regardless, I had fun writing this.

.

_I_ _found_ _love_ _where_ _it_ _wasn't_ _supposed_ _to_ _be_ _._

.

**March 2016**

When they fight, it sticks with her for days to come.

Like toxic in the air she breathes, like second skin that she's desperately trying to scratch at but won't ever fall, not until she's bit her lip and looked at his eyes and apologized.

But she doesn't  _want_  to. She doesn't want to apologize - at least not for  _wanting_  him.

It feels wrong to pretend when she's with him, when she's standing in front of him with her nails digging indents on her inner palm. She doesn't want to pretend that she's sorry. And on any other occasion, during any of her past relationships, she would have easily opened her mouth and screamed exactly that. She would have spit venom with her angry words, and quite possibly have ended up in a fight that involves plates and glasses shattering by her polished Giuseppe Zanotti heels.

But Liam's eyes shine with unshed tears when he gets mad -  _furious_ even, because along with his anger, comes regret, thoughts that he'll let her down, thoughts that he'll lose her. And Cheryl  _knows_ _this_ , and she knows he is scared and it makes her even more frustrated because she also knows that it might always be like this.

She just sucks at keeping relationships together.

(It's even worse that she's scared too, scared shitless that she might say the wrong thing at the wrong moment and they will go up in flames like they were always destined to burn.)

And because Cheryl hates the sheen settling over Liam's eyes when he sighs and leans back on the kitchen counter with a hand in his pocket and the other on his cell phone, she sucks in some air, digs her nails even deeper and apologizes -  _again_ _._

She apologizes and barely holds the tears in as she changes her Instagram bio to something less provocative.

(It was only meant to be a  _joke._ )

.

**February 2016**

"You're fucking a boy," she states.

She takes a deep breath, watches her chest rise and then fall as her eyes flit down the mirror. "You're fucking a 23 year-old boy," she tries again.

Then, she waits. And waits.

And  _waits._

She sighs and slams the door on her way out of the bathroom.

 _Nope_ , she still doesn't regret it.

.

**November 2014**

It all starts with that stupid performance.

(Children in Need isn't stupid per se, of course, but she still holds that whole damn thing responsible for getting her here in the first place.)

She's tired, desperate to get out of the tight white dress her stylist forced upon her tonight, and most of all, she's  _drowning -_ she hasn't even left the building yet and there's whispering amongst the audience spreading like wildfire.

_"At_ _least_ _she_ _wasn't_ _lip_ _-syncing."_

_"Biggest joke_ _in_ _the_ _industry."_

_Shut_ _up_ _._

_Shut_ _up_ _._

_Shut_ _up_ _._

To her own horror, she discovers her hands are trembling as JB throws an arm around her waist in the car, his lips morphing words that she hears but doesn't register.

Her heart picks up its pace and her eyes flutter against the familiar but unwelcome feeling of nausea, that dreadful metallic taste in her mouth that tells her she might retch her guts out within the next ten seconds.

_Get your shit_ _together_ _Cheryl._

She inhales deeply and stares outsidethe window, her hand lying limp by her thigh on the car seat.

"Hey," JB speaks softly, a finger brushing Cheryl's stray hair away from her slightly damp cheek. He doesn't bother to ask if what he touches is the result of tears, of panic attacks or just exhaustion, he never does, but Cheryl shuts her eyes against his calloused forefinger anyway. "Maybe I can take you out somewhere nice tonight, no?"

And in that moment she wants to breathe out and cry. She wants to bury her hands in her hair and tear off the bobbles holding it together to perfection, so similar to all the strings that seemingly hold  _her_ together.

Instead, she smiles. She smiles, making sure that her dimples show as she throws a glance at him and nods. She smiles even though it twists her insides that the man she has married doesn't realise she's ever so steadily falling apart.

(Even though it kills her that her hand in his,  _is_ , in fact, as if trying to force two  _wrong_  jigsaw puzzle pieces together.)

.

**February 2016**

She calls him, first.

She has a bottle of Cristal in one hand and a cigarette hanging loosely in between her fingers on the other, as she presses her phone to her ear and leans back on the lounging chair.

The moon is shining bright above her and yet no stars are visible - England is a fickle bitch when it comes to weather. England is a fickle bitch when it comes to time, too. Like, why couldn't time roll forwards the same way as it does in America? Why couldn't Earth bring Europe and America closer?

Why couldn't Earth fucking push Liam to come the fuck back?

(She's do desperate it's physically painful.)

"Hello?"

His voice is dipped in bass and low tones, and Cheryl almost drops the bottle as the word shoots down to her core and instantly warms her up, like old whiskey during a cold winter.

(Not that she's ever drunk whiskey, thank you very much.)

For a while, she doesn't answer. She listens to his deep breaths on the mic, and closes her eyes, wishes the vibrations rippling through her body would stop so that she could enjoy this stolen moment to the  _fullest_.

"Hey, is anyone there?" Liam asks again, and this time, Cheryl sighs, fiddling with the fag between her index and thumb. He obviously didn't check the caller's ID when he picked up. Cheryl knows this because she also knows that if he had, he would have seen a picture of them fooling around with pasta, like 12 year-olds. And she knows  _that_  because she put the picture there.

"I am." She whispers, wind blowing slightly against her and sweeping her hair in small circles.

She's _selfish,_  that's what she is.

Selfish and throbbing, with want and  _need,_ to feel Liam underneath her fingertips and have him fuck her until all her doubts wash away along with his grunts and her moans.

"Chez?" His voice,  _God._  She can imagine his brow furrowing, his lip twitching at the mention of her name, his eyes fluttering to the ground for a moment as he tries to figure out if it is, indeed, her.

She misses him terribly.

"Hi," she breathes. Stutters, almost chokes on her ciggie as his laugh penetrates the silence of her balcony. So many words she could say to him and yet she chooses silence once more.

"You numpty, what are you doing up so late?" He asks cutely. "It's like," he pauses and she smiles at the image of him looking down at his expensive watch and trying to figure out the time difference, "3 a.m over there."

It's 4.17 a.m, actually, and Cheryl knows because she's been counting down the minutes since he left, the seconds, has the time differences between each state he goes to and London down to a T.

She sighs again, licking her bottom lip and tracing nonsense patterns on the neck of the bottle with her thumb. "I couldn't sleep." She admits, slowly.

"Is everything alright babe?"

As the night gets a bit more chilly, and a siren sounds at the distance, Cheryl feels her eyes burn without her permission. She watches as her fag dissipates underneath the sole of her foot, and she tucks some hair behind her ear, gaining time.

Procrastinating.

"Yes," she finally replies. Lying. She's gotten so good at that. She's almost proud of how far she's come.

It's silent again and this time it suffocates her, so much so that a tear escapes and she wipes it away quick.

"No." She clarifies, her voice foreign to her own ears. Wobbly and weak, just as she felt on the inside.

"Talk to me, baby." He says almost instantly, and Cheryl can hear some rustling from the other end of the phone, a door close, and him adjusting his phone on his shoulder.

She smiles, and the tears fall down further.

"I can't," she mumbles, staring at her feet. Her voice is watery and her thoughts are all over the place, like Cristal jumbled them up and threw them around in her mind until all that came out of this terrible mix is  _Liam, Liam, Liam._ "I'm sorry," she whispers then, but she's not sure why. She's so used to apologizing to him that it's become a habit.

(She doesn't want to lose him, but at the same time being called a pedophile is something she can handle only for  _so_  long.)

She hears him sigh, pictures him run his fingers through his short hair that have only just started to grow from that buzz cut.

"I can't believe you're doing this to me right now."

She presses her eyes closed so tight that she sees stars, and takes a swig out of the Cristal.

( _Selfish,_  that's what she is.)

Her breaths are short and her hands are shaking, but she speaks the next words with the resolution of a woman who knows when the time's up.

"They hate me." She states because it's true, and she knows it's eating him inside as well.

He breathes and it's deep, a bit sloppy, but always calm, calculated, like the man she's come to fall in love with. "Give it time, Chez."

She shakes her head. "I hate me." She then says, leaves the Cristal on a table as she heads back inside and sits on an empty, large bed that is so big it's choking her.

There's silence.

And then -

"I love you."

(Like always, it shuts her up.)

.


	2. Chapter 2

_Well_ _, can_ _I_ _ask_ _you_ _about_ _today_ _,_ _how_ _close_ _am_ _I to_ _losing_ _you?_

_._

**February 2014**

So what if she was (is) his celebrity crush? So what if he once or twice (7 times) fantasized about her in the past?

It's called the  _past_ for a reason you know?

He'll go into that studio and he'll dominate the space, as he always does. He'll walk in, and lay his hands on the equipment and go straight into business mode. He'll shake her hand and -

"Payno!"

She hugs him.

He tries to gulp but he can't.

( _You're so_ _fucked_ _,_ _buddy_.)

He smiles like the piece of absolute mush that she manages to always turn him into.  _Goddamn it._

"Hey stranger," he leans back and winks, then catches himself and rapidly flutters his eyes to cover up - and oh my God why the hell did he even wink, such a  _fucking_ _idiot_ _-_

"Do you have something in your eye pet?" Cheryl asks, almost genuinely concerned and he wants to kick himself.

Her brows are furrowing and her hands are still on his biceps, fingers curled like vices around his muscle, just like his are resting on the curves of her hips.

He tries to swallow but his throat is dry, and it feels like there's something blocking his airway.

And he's supposed to say something then,  _right now,_ but instead he immerses himself in the sea of deep, warm brown, staring back at him with the innocence of what Liam has always compared to that of an elegant, beautiful deer.

 _God,_ her eyes.

"...Liam!"

And just like that, he's snapped back to reality.

He shakes his head, gulps, and throws a goofy grin at her, slowly retracting his palms from her waist and stepping back.

"Your phone's ringing babe." She says, moves her hands to her hair as she sloppily ties it up to a bun. "Go on then," she adds a second later, after Liam makes no move to stop ogling at her or the way her stomach flexes visibly as her skimpy top rides up her body when she moves. "Don't keep them waiting."

She bites her lip, winks, and turns around.

And when Liam finally manages to attach his jaw back to his mouth, he looks down at his phone and comes face to face with the image of Sophia smiling megawatts.

" _Liam?_ " She's speaking softly.

"Hey baby," he mutters and once again forces down the sudden lump lodged at the bottom of his throat. "What's up?"

(Later, much later, when he returns home from an intense studio session with Cheryl, and he settles on the thousand - pound couch with his girlfriend in his arms, he will come to realize, terrifyingly enough, that what he's been trying to swallow down this whole time has a name indeed ;

It's called fucking _guilt_ _._ )

.

**October 2014**

Harry traps his lip beneath his teeth and raises an eyebrow at the mirror in front of him.

He drops the face and sighs.

"This is bad," he says, turning around and leaning his hip bone on the counter behind him, as Louis snorts and Zayn burrows further in his pillow.

"The end of the world, I bet," Louis exclaims from the kitchen, his voice muffled from the hum of the fridge.

"If you had my hair, you'd get it."

"Thanks, but no thanks."

Harry straightens up and sidesteps to get a better view of Louis drinking water.

"Are you starting with me right now?"

"I thought we'd finished already."

Liam rolls his eyes at the banter surely to follow, and the last thing he hears before he pushes his earphones in his ears, "just you wait Tommo!", he huffs a breath and turns around in his bed.

Niall is at the lobby and Zayn has spaced out once again. He plays a random tune on Spotify and closes his eyes against the cold air of the room, little shivers traveling down his arms and his ankles rubbing together to provide warmth.

He thinks about Christmas and what he'll do this year - will they even be back home? Or will they be touring still? Sophia couldn't come on this date, but she's still texting him daily, her photos fuelling him to wrap this thing up and return home.

He loves touring with all his heart, but not this,  _aching_ , to go home, aching to have Sophia in his arms, underneath him, solid and  _there._

He texts her a kiss goodnight from Miami, and presses his face to the satin sheets, adjusting the blanket to escape the piercing October chills.

As he goes to sleep, he gets a message, thinking it's her.

But he opens it and what greets him is -  _Can you talk?_

And somehow, he doesn't need to check ;

He's off the bed and headed to the hallway faster than Bolt, paying no mind to Zayn or Harry who shout after him. He thumbs open her contact and has it dialled in a split second.

" _This is so random_ ," her first words. Then, " _I just needed someone random yano?_ "

He breathes and tries to ignore how her voice washes over him, like slow, overwhelming waves. He leans his head against the wall and ignores the incoming message that is definitely Sophia's sweet goodnight. The lights flicker above him and he feels like he's on the precipice of a revelation - as if the silence hanging between them might be the key to something otherworldly, something new.

" _Sorry_." She whispers seconds after.

He shuts his eyes tightly and runs a hand over his face in frustration.

( _Why are you doing this to yourself, mate?_ )

"S'okay," he whispers back, like their moment is sacred and the walls might eavesdrop. "I'm here, Chez."

 _I've never left,_ is what he really means.

(It's not the fucking _past._  It's fucking  _reality._ )

.

**November 2015**

"Does the concept of personal space not mean shite to you?"

She's leaning over the faucet with her mouth slightly open and her eyes misty, and Liam hides a palm in his pants' pocket to stop himself from reaching out.

She's been vomiting and he can tell from the way her chest is heaving, her hands curled so tight against the washbasin that her knuckles are turning white. Her face is dripping water - or it could be sweat for all he knows - yet her makeup is undeterred.

She looks so small in the vast bathroom space that he's scared she'll shrink. So vulnerable and open, like a wound that keeps being prodded at and all he can do is watch from afar as they keep pushing and pushing at her until she breaks at the seams and what remains is  _this ;_ an empty shell of who she used to be.

She turns her head sharply to her right and her gaze pierces his, pinning him to his spot as it always does.

"It's a public bathroom," he finally says lamely, not bothering to sound convincing - it's a bullshit excuse and they both know.

He doesn't care that they might get caught, he doesn't care that someone might see - even though nothing's really happening. But sometimes he feels so strongly for her that he's certain the camera lenses will capture his emotions. He's sure that the next morning he'll wake up with a newspaper declaring in intimidating, bold, letters : " _Crush Alert - Payno Has the Hots For Ms. Fernandez - Versini._ "

And during that miniscule, completely irrational moment when he thinks the above is a possibility, he realizes he would laugh more than anything. Because there would be two points in that headline that he knows for a fact are complete bullshit.

(What he feels for Cheryl is not a crush, and she's  _definitely_ not that asshole's wife. Not in his eyes anyway.)

Cheryl huffs out a laugh with no humour in it. It sounds empty, just like Liam feels inside.

"Cut the crap Liam," she spits, standing a bit straighter, tightening her lips just a bit more and Liam has known her long enough to know what comes next. "You shouldn't be in here."

He shakes his head. For all the ways she can make him melt, there is double the amount of times she makes him want to scream at her. He leans off the doorframe and clenches his fist.

"That makes two of us then."

She inhales sharply and turns around, finally facing him head on.

(He's ready for this, always have been.)

"What the fuck do you want from us?" Her voice breaks and she moves closer. She takes a step forward but in her eyes Liam sees the step back, recognizes the walls and the façade she's come to build so well.

He should know. He should know what this thing is between them before its anonymity starts eating at him, before the  _not knowing_  of it all chokes him to death.

But he suddenly feels angry.  _Oh_ so angry.

What does he _want_?

He wants to grab her and push her to the wall next to the mirror until her back presses so hard to the tiles that it'll drill open a hole. He wants to dig his fingers through her hair and mess it up, he wants to kiss at the pulsing vein at her neck - he  _wants wants wants,_ because all that Cheryl's ever been to him is  _wanting,_ wanting but not  _having,_ and he's tired.

He's tired of not having.

He's tired of not knowing. 

He stares at her with his jaw so tightly wound that he's worried it'll snap in two. And across from him she's standing tense and resolute, not breaking in front of him. How could Cheryl ever break?

She's not meant to break.

(She's been broken so many times there's nothing left to temper with.)

And because Cheryl knows this, and knows who he is and what he wants and what she can, in the end, give, she smirks patronizingly. She smirks but her eyes are shining like stars. She smirks but her hand is tightening on her beautiful dress, the dress that is grey see-through at the top and has a huge thigh split at the bottom.

She smirks but really, if Liam knows one thing then it's this ; she's crying so loud that it's piercing. So intensely that her eyes stare through him and into his soul and he knows that this moment will forever be imprinted on his mind.

She smirks sadly, and he looks away.

"Nothing," he whispers in the end. He palms his face and ignores the burning behind his eyes. "Nothing."

He stares at the floor resolutely, breathes, curses inwardly at himself and turns around. Reaches the door handle and pauses at the sound of her voice. Broken and small.

"It's better this way."

It takes him a moment to laugh. It takes him a second to bang his head against the door, and curse. He twists his head and looks at this woman he's fallen for. This woman who's been smiling all day for the paparazzi because it's the Music Industry Trust Awards, and the nation's sweetheart needs to be on point.

_Fake, fake, fake._

"Fuck you." He whispers. "Fuck you and fuck him."

He's never walked away so fast in his life.

.

**February 2016**

"Fuck me," she growls.

He gulps, stares, stills his hand at the vines coiled around her upper thigh.

He's trembling, shaking, so sure that he might collapse because of how she's looking at him. He feels his pulse raise and his skin tingle, his fingers burning from desire where they meet Cheryl's ribs. The soft concave of her stomach, the penumbra underneath her supple breasts. Her hair as it cascades on his shoulder.

When he doesn't move, she leans in, rubs her upper lip on his bottom one.

"Fuck me," she breathes.

He missed this. He missed her when he was in LA, and now he's losing her.

There are  _tears_  in his eyes because she is letting him go. There are goosebumps along his spine because she's skimming her hands over it, claiming him all over again when she reaches in between his thighs.

Reducing him into nothing. Into everything.

"Cheryl, I - "

"Don't," she mumbles in his ear, tightens her grip and molds against him on the bed as he moans and tightens his arms around her. "Just don't."

(He wishes it didn't shut him up.)

.  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

_I still want to drown, whenever you leave. Please teach me gently, how to breathe._

_._

**November** **201** **5**

The problem with Liam is his fucking smile.

Actually, scratch that. The problem with Liam, is  _everything_. It's his individual gait, the way he walks as though his legs drop with all his mighty force to the ground. The crinkles at the corner of his eyes when he makes a terrible,  _terrible_ joke and laughs at it by himself. How his lips stretch to accommodate the face-splitting grin he's always sporting.

His arms, his back -

She wants to punch him now.

He's been wearing his best poker face since the toilet incident about half an hour ago, sitting in his chair so rigidly that she's almost certain he looks like a statue.

It doesn't help that Simon had the bright idea to seat them all in one table after receiving his award.

She's literally stuck between a rock and a hard place right now. Across from her is what has the potential to be possibly the biggest (and most irresponsible) fuck-up in a lifetime, and she's winged by twiddle-dee and twiddle-dum.

(Cheryl loves Harry and Louis, she does, really, but under the influence of alcohol they transform into immature, hyperactive kids, and needless to say - the alcohol has been flowing at breaking speed today.)

"What  _will_ you be doing during your break?" Simon asks after a second's silence.

Cheryl has never understood why some people feel the need to constantly fill the silence with words. Sometimes she wants to sit and say nothing, she wants to just  _be_ without needing to explain herself - but you'll be surprised to know that amongst all the luxuries that a popstar can delve into, silence isn't one of them.

(She almost wishes she wasn't a popstar now, as she watches Liam stare emptily at the glimmering plate in front of him, filled to the brim with desserts that have remained untouched.)

Harry leans back on his chair and taps his knuckles against the table, the other hand digging through his thick hair. "Live the life, you know," he says, a little smile playing at his lips. "Maybe have some fun while we're at it."

Louis snorts in his glass, and Simon smirks, but all she sees is Liam's tense shoulders and his jaw, clenching so hard that a vein pops up behind his beard and she's horrified to realize that she  _kinda_ , sorta,  _maybe_  wants to run the tip of her fingers over it.

The other Louis, the 'I know nothing and have zero self - respect'  _Walsh,_ wheezes, leaning onto his elbows as if he's about get in on the gossip of the year.

"Does the fun include ladies by any chance?"

Harry full on smirks, resting his weight towards the back of Cheryl's chair with the side of his face propped up on his sweaty palm. "What'd you think?" He wiggles his eyebrows, and everyone laughs, including her because she has a fucking image to maintain.

She laughs and plays the part. "I think you need a good spanking." She states, pushing her tongue against her cheek and raising an eyebrow at him.

Harry turns and grins, his teeth catching light from the chandelier above them. "Are you offering Mrs. Fernandez - Versini?"

The table think nothing of it, laughing at the intentionally poor pronunciation of the name and he smiles away like a stoned kid in high school. But Cheryl feels her breath break at the sound of her surname, and her eyes snap to Liam's hands clutching at the silver cutlery like it's his lifeline.

Simon shakes his head and laughs, "Harry, behave," he exclaims.

Cheryl smiles it away like always.

"Nah, it's all good fun," Harry states. "She's like our annoying old sister anyway."

This time, she closes her eyes against the abrupt scraping of his chair.

The sound only breaks her heart further.

.

**May 2017**

"Were you going to tell me?"

Liam rarely ever gets angry. In fact, Cheryl has only ever seen him tense and ready to snap only a handful of times, perhaps at the beginning of all of this.

But she also is very aware of how ill-tempered  _she_ is ; their arguments always end with one of them broken and defeated. She screams and he's silently judging, in a way that ends up being more hurtful than any venomous words he could have spit back at her.

By no means is she used to it though. They don't fight, they don't sleep in separate rooms, because they love each other and by the day's end they have somehow managed to made up.

 _This_ however she doesn't recognize, the fiery passion in his eyes that's burning a hole through hers. The air in the room is cold and Cheryl feels goosebumps raise along her spine, her hand resting on the kitchen counter as she stares back at him.

"And don't you dare fucking lie to me Chez." He states. "Don't you fucking dare."

And he looks at her expectedly, his eyes glistening and his finger pointing at her accusingly, so condemning that the inside of her mouth turns to cotton wool and she swallows but nothing goes down.

She feels her own eyes water and tries to bite her bottom lip in an attempt to stop the inevitable, or more suitably -  _delay_ it.

"You invited him here?" He asks differently.

 _Does it matter?_  She thinks bitterly.

The answer to his question is something akin to sand in an hourglass ; she has it, but it slips between the cracks before she can form the words, and the feeling that follows is the steady rising of her heartbeat, the slight tremble of her fingers.

"I - " she stops. Breathes, staring at the ground and tries again. "I didn't know for sure." She keeps her eyes away from him, "I didn't think he'd accept."

Liam huffs out a laugh and lowers his finger, shooting her an incredulous look. "You weren't sure?" He asks, shaking his head, "That's the best you can do?"

The distance between them feels like miles when Cheryl takes a step forward, ready to placate him, ready to lay her heart on the line completely if it means he will stop looking at her like she's everything that's causing him pain right now.

"He's me brother," she starts, gulping down her hesitance. "I love him -"

"Yeah he's also a fucking criminal, Chez!"

Liam slaps his palm on the counter so hard that it echoes across the white walls and resonates within Cheryl, cold and static. She feels selfish when the baby's cries offer a short respite. She feels selfish when she turns to stare at Liam and feels guilt pierce the stitches of her heart open, like she might crumble from the force of his cold eyes, his hand that's still laid on the countertop, red, bruised, hurting.

Bear screams, his wails settling between them like a concrete barrier.

Liam moves first.

A hand over his face, a leg slightly turned away, like he might walk away any given minute.

Cheryl chokes on a breath. Looks down, presses her lips together and uncrosses her feet.

"He's me brother," she whispers.

She looks up just as a tear falls down. And then leaves to find her safe haven, her  _son._

(She shouldn't have to walk away from him,  _ever._ She isn't supposed to.)

.

**October 2014**

He's so distracted that he fails to check the wayward angle of his mug and it only takes a second before he's hissing and swearing at the coffee now staining his white top.

Hearing Cheryl ask him what's wrong in the other side of the phone, he quickly drops the phone to the carpeted floor next to him and takes off his tank top, cleaning the coffee off his palm with it. He hits his head on the wall behind him.

_Way to go Payno._

He sighs and picks the phone up again, hoping that amidst him making a mess of himself and her ranting about her husband, she didn't end the call.

He feels tired, and thinks of how exhausted she must be with all that is happening to her love life right now.

A husband that treats her like she's his prized possession and an X-factor waiting to gain on views by showcasing her body in different outfits each week.

"Chez?" He mumbles, rubbing his eyebrows, as he settles back down, chills running through his body as cold wind comes in through an open window at the end of the corridor. It's dark outside yet he can only picture Cheryl having breakfast, England's morning clouds casting gloom over her house. "You still there?"

She hums an agreement and lets out a small, breathy laugh.

(He's sporting a fucking hard-on, fuck's sake  _you have a_   _girlfriend get your shit together_ \- )

" _You should be sleeping no_?" She speaks softly, yet raspy, like her vocal chords are fragmented rocks in a Hessian sack, like smooth sandpaper, if possible.

He inhales, "yeah," he breathes, "yeah I probably should." He bites back a yawn.

She hums again. It's so silent that he thinks he might fall asleep to the rhythm of her exhalations. Smooth and silky as she is, perfect for a song.  _Soprano_ , he thinks. She'd a be a perfect background vocal, her hums a perfect beat.

He smiles to himself.

" _Liam_?" She whispers. " _I love the remix. I think it's very good._ "

"Mhm."

His eyes are heavy, shoulders slouched and Cheryl's voice is like a well-worn path that he willingly follows to dreamland.

His breathing steadies.

" _Sweet dreams, babe_ ," is the last thing he hears.

.

**March 2016**

"I'm quitting."

She expected him to choke. Maybe spit his food out in the best case scenario.

She always has been known for being a little shit.

She's halfway to smirking, when he only raises his eyes, sips his champagne, and then looks back down.

_Where's the fun in that?_

Then he smiles a little knowing grin and completely ruins her day.

"What?" She asks, huffing and puffing childishly, and crossing her arms. "That's all? No questions, no reaction, no begging,  _nothing?"_

Simon shrugs and raises his finger at the waiter across the room.

The man comes rushing like his arse is on fire.

"Arse-licker," she mutters under her breath.

"I knew you would eventually," Simon turns back to her once the smiling idiot is gone. He has a ring she hasn't seen on him before and he thumbs at it.

(It's almost scary that she instinctively goes to do the same and realizes there's nothing  _there.)_

"You're looking good," he finally says. Taking another bite from his expensive sirloin.

She rolls her eyes and places a nail at the corner of her bottom lip, gnawing at it until she can feel a little blood on her tongue. "Not like I could get any worse now could I?" She stares towards the large, floor-length, windows next to them. The wind just won't abate today and she dreads the return back home, streets that she doesn't know and people she doesn't care to meet, ever-present in all her movements.

He snaps his eyes to hers.

"The only way is up and all that jazz." She clarifies, clearing her throat.

Simon is a good man. Annoying yes. Fucking whimsical to a point where it gets a bit crazy, yes. But he's a good man, regardless. He's a good man even after he filled her to the brim with hopes and dreams and then proceeded to sweep it all away with a flick of his hand, leaving her empty and lonely for so long that she lost herself for far longer than she stayed unemployed.

Naive, that's what she was.

Sometimes she thinks she still is.

Simon's warm hand on hers startles her back to the reality of this luxurious restaurant in a not-so-luxurious street of LA.

"He loves you, it'll be ok." He states, as reassuring as ever.

Always reading her mind. Forever 20 steps ahead with that cunning mind of his.

She smiles back, even though it feels wrong to fake it for him. He knows every single smile she has. He can tell how genuine her smile is by how deep her dimples carve themselves in her cheek when she stretches her lips.

He can tell by the crinkles next to her eyes, and she  _knows._

She smiles anyway.

Simon shakes his head, squeezing her hand. "He  _loves_ you."

She wonders how the girl that used to drink herself to a stupor with Hardcore Harding and a ciggie between her fingers ended up here ;

Wondering where did it all go wrong.

(Where did it all go  _right?)_

 _He loves you_ , he says.

 _That's what they all said_ , she thinks, and lowers the sunglasses perched on the top of her head because it is the only protection she has, in the end.

.  
  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

_Why'd you only call me when you're high?_

_._

**October** **2015**

" _Hello?"_

"I'm drunk as a skunk."

Silence.

" _Liam? Is that you?"_

"Knock, knock."

" _Liam - what the... What bloody time is it - "_

"Knock, knock."

_"What the fuck - who is this?"_

"Anee."

" _Come again?"_

"Anee."

There's rustling on the other side.

_"What - Anee who?"_

"Anee one you like!"

He laughs.

He hears a growl.

" _If this_   _is a fuckin' prank I swear to God_  -  _it's three a.m in the bloody morning who do you think you are_  - "

He bites back a giggle. God he's pissed.

"It's me."

_"I'll ask for the last fucking time, who the hell is this?"_

"Canoo."

_"Canoo... First it's Anee then this shit - you mate are bloody hilarious ain't ya? Who the fuck calls themselves Canoo anyway - "_

"Canoo come pick me up?" He asks, his brain muddled enough that his numbed senses don't stop him from being an utter idiot. "In Manchester -"

He's grasping at the payphone like a safety rope, but he feels his grip slip slightly when  _his_ voice becomes audible from the other side.

Always there. Always trapping her.

 _"Go back to sleep J,"_ he listens to her low whisper, knowing it isn't aimed at him but still feeling warmth spread over him.  _"It's... It's one of me contestants."_

Liam closes his eyes against the lie, his forehead leaning on the battered, mold-filled window pane of the booth.

He hears shuffling and he suddenly feels nauseous.

_"I - Liam?"_

"Is he there?"

" _Who?"_

"Him." He spits like it's venom on his tongue, like it pains him to even think about him having his hands around her, sleeping next to her on their large bed.

Kissing her and  _touching_ her and doing things to her that probably make her whimper and moan and scream. He probably fucks her every night, like the smug bastard he is. He fucks her good and hard, just as hard as Liam knows he makes her  _cry_ sometimes, degrades her, makes her feel like utter shit.

 _"JB? Of course he's here, he's me husband and it's three fucking am here and it's probably fucking pitch black in London too -"_ She cuts herself off. Breaths into the phone. He pictures her lick her lips, clutch her robe a bit tighter around her, maybe looking out a window.  _"Liam why are you even calling us right now?"_

He suddenly wonders if that's just Cheryl's type. Does she like being treated that way? Does she like being thoroughly fucked and then being verbally abused until there's nothing left but her tears -

_Stop._

_You're drunk._

Stop.  _Stop_.  _ **STOP**_.

_"Fucking hell Liam, are you drunk?"_

"I already said that - don't change the subject."

_Why are you getting angry? You don't have the right, you loser._

_I'm gonna throw up._

_"What are you talking about?"_

"Is he... I'm - "

_"Liam what the fuck is going on? Do you know I'm in Rome right now - "_

_They're in Rome._

They're in Rome, fucking, living out their wreckage of a marriage. They're in Rome and he's in Manchester, standing drenched from sweat and reeking of alcohol at a payphone outside his band's hotel. Alone.

_Alone._

"She's breaking up with me."

His voice breaks at the end and there's a resounding sigh escaping her lips just seconds later.

_"So you drink yourself to a stupor?"_

"You called." He states. "Last year, around October, remember?"

There's silence.

She'd called him because three months into their marriage and that asshole had already made her feel like she was a whore.

Almost reluctantly, maybe even with a tinge of guilt, she sighs again.

 _"Guess I owe you then."_ He smiles bitterly because it shouldn't have to be about  _owing_ _. "Talk to me,"_ she then whispers softly, and despite the cold ;

He's warm once again.

.

**December 2016**

"I swear to God mate, if you don't end this call right now, and delete her fucking number, I will personally fly all the way to France and make sure you don't even have the balls to go out in public ever again. Am I fucking clear?"

He has the audacity to laugh. " _You think I'm afraid of you, little boy_?"

Liam grinds his teeth together so hard he can hear his jaw clench, his vein pop.

"Why you're a real man aye? Proper dickhead with no brain, no?"

Liam doesn't know if hearing him sigh makes him angrier or just plain annoyed beyond return.

But then -

" _I don't want to argue with you. I just want her."_

Want her?  _Want_  her?

Oh this just keeps getting better and better.

"Are you retarded or something? She's out of your life man,  _gone. Moved on."_

 _"I know that."_ He sighs again.  _"But she's also a free woman and I have the right to talk to her. I just want to clear a few things. Set it right. So just hand her the phone and let the grown-ups talk please."_

"Set it right? You're gonna fucking get it - "

"Liam."

Liam abruptly turns around, looking at her with a fire in his eyes and he can see the flash of recognition in hers, the momentary twitch in her eyebrow, the tiny amount of tightening on her upper lip.

That looks she reserves for unadulterated cases of emergency, those times where there are grounds for her to be reckless, rash, ready to jump and do something stupid like -

"Hand me the phone."

_"Finally."_

"Shut up!" He shouts.

_"Alright, Jesus, so dramatic."_

Cheryl raises an eyebrow, narrowing her eyes and extending her hand out towards him. Like she expects him to just give her the phone, like asking him to let her fall in a death trap, as if his fingers aren't white from the pressure he has on the back of her cellphone, pressed on his ear.

_As if._

"Liam," she mutters this time. Her eyes deep, brown and as disconcerting as ever.

Liam looks down, beneath her hand and over at her stomach, the bump so big now that he's wondering how it is possible that the baby hasn't pushed itself out yet. He stares at it and makes a choice ;

A conscious choice that makes him tremble and dig his nails in the washed-out material of his jeans.

He hands her the phone and she smiles.

He hands her the phone and thinks it's alright.

"Jean," she breathes. She  _breathes._

Liam shakes his head and walks away, hopes they're right when they claim that sometimes you have to lose a battle to win the war.

.

**July 2016**

"You sound breathless."

In LA, it's raining. He's been seated on this sofa for hours now, looking at the window in front of him. The curtains don't hide much, but they don't need to anyway - nobody knows he's here. They managed it somehow.

Pharell handed him this book with a wink and a smile, told him to take a breath, have some whiskey while he's at it and then read.

The streets are barren and the room is slightly damp. It's summer and it's raining.

 _"I am,"_ she says, her voice crackling through the receiver. It's late there, and if he strains just a bit he can hear the sound of cotton sheets rub against her soft, olive skin. He can hear the intonations in her words, and it pains him to guess what she has been doing. Why her voice sounds stressed.

Low.

Overused.

"Here when I say  _I never want to be without you_ , somewhere else I am saying  _I never want to be without you again."_ He reads. He's thumbing at the leather-bound book, tapping a rhythm against it, just to leave an intendation there with his nails, as he listens to her breaths.

One, two. And she's inhaled.

One, and she's exhaled.

Like she's losing her breath, like her lungs are stretching to accommodate the air but her brain says otherwise.

And every pause he isn't rewarded with acknowledgement, every passing second she's  _there,_ but she's not, his control slips further and with it goes that tiny shard of hope that pokes at him ; that hope that she's not doing what he thinks she is.  
  


" _What else_?" She asks, this time a bit more testily, more cautiously even. It's starting to gnaw at him – even at her logic-shunning  _darkest_  moments, Cheryl is smarter than this. Smarter than smart and quicker than he will ever be, he thinks.

"Here I have two hands and they are vanishing," he swallows and listens as the sounds against his ear turn less uniform... more frenzied. "The hollow of your back to rest my cheek against, your voice and little else but my assiduous fear to cherish."

She moans, lowly, and Liam's eyes flutter closed, licking his lips. " _I didn't know you liked poetry,_ " she pauses, and there's a whimper between them and Liam is so lost, so feebly trying to grasp at reality whilst she's dragging him away, floating out of reach of the reality he's so desperate to remain in. He's so lost he doesn't know who's breathing what, who's moaning, who's whining.

The raindrops only enhance the atmosphere. His hands are crushing the material of the sofa, picking at the threads and he imagines them somewhere else. He imagines having them buried between Cheryl's thighs and he imagines her breaths in his ear. He can almost feel her nails digging little crescents like half-moons in his shoulder blades and he stutters at the probability of her dragging them down, leaving red marks behind.

He pictures her hair in between his knuckles, her eyebrows joined against the feeling of his hands. He sees her chest struggle to lift the weight of the breaths she's taking, her breasts damp where he lowers his forehead on them because the heating is on – always in England.

He catches himself staring at the contractions of her stomach – where a miracle has happened. Where there's life growing, where if he stretches far enough, he can be there, in the warmth that nurtures his biggest achievement.

He knows he'd bite her cheek, leave a wet spot there and she'd let him, she'd let him dig, dig, dig into the softness, in the warmth, until he reached her most intimate place, her raw material.

Cheryl is only soft around hard and he knows he's privy to some sort of  _magic_  when she lets him in, when she traps him between her limbs and buries her palms in the mess of his hair.

Liam sighs because he knows it's where he should be. In her bed, in her arms, in  _her._

"It's Pharell's," he says quietly, finally, his level-headedness fighting for supremacy when all he wants to do is fly across the world and watch Cheryl lose herself if only for a moment. "He's strange like that." He finishes in a whisper, feeling almost as if speaking a word more might break this aura settled around him, this aura that is so purely  _her._

" _Mmm,_ " she hums, the reverberations raising goose bumps on his skin. Then a soft sigh and then movement, sheets crumbling and teeth gritting. He can hear her sore throat, the quick successions of her breaths.

He gulps, stares at the word-studded pages in front of him.

He pictures her smile, her bright cuspids adding bite to a grin that could move  _mountains_ , and her brown eyes burn a hole through him, her hair catching the light from their bedside lamp. Her hands are webbed behind his neck, where his little baby hair are surely standing straight from the attention she's giving them.

He gulps.

"When I don't touch you it's a mistake in any life, in each place and forever." He whispers to her.

Her whining, small, and desperate little sounds hit Liam wave after wave, electricity cackling in the air. Rain hits the window but he  _listens,_ it's torture, but he listens. He doesn't trust himself to keep still, to not speak, so he puts a fist in his mouth and bites down.

He bites down just as her hair ruffle around on the pillow, just as her tongue licks her lips when she's close and he  _knows._ He knows the movements of her fingers, and he can tell she's turned the phone away, biting at the pillow because everything is muffled.

It feels like she's underwater and she's trying to pull him to the bottom of the ocean with her, with every moan escaping from between her lips, every time the bed creaks from her fervor.

He thinks he might be slowly drowning. His jeans too tight, the collar of his shirt too restrictive and her body too far away.

And then –

" _Liam,_ " she murmurs lowly, the calm before the storm.

Her raw whisper tells him what he can't admit ;

He's been submerged all this time and he's just realizing that he doesn't need the air to live.

.  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

_Who am I, darling to you?_

_._

**May 2017**

Sometimes, he folds up at the edge of the mattress and stares almost forlornly at the floor-length windows across the room. God knows what's so fascinating about their garden that he has to wake up at the crack of dawn to look outside.

Nevertheless, and  _especially_  today, she stays silent, leaving her eyes just a little open, enough to drink in the stretch of his biceps as he rests his fists by either side of him on the bed. She mentally traces the angle of his jaw and breathes, slowly, against the weight that settles on her shoulders as he adopts that look again; that look of an abandoned child, a lost human.

(She has to remind herself, for the umpteenth time – he  _is_ a child.)

A twenty-three year old boy, with the mentality of a forty year old man, and a baby waiting to scream at the first noise to be heard.

She can see the vein curling like ivy around his cheekbones as he tenses, letting out a breath, but she doesn't disturb the silence.

If there is one thing Cheryl knows, it's his silences. She has her own, after all.

It's been two or three days since their row about her brother, Andrew, but she likes to pretend she's oblivious to the obvious rift between them. Liam sees a criminal in him but all Cheryl can recognize is her 16 year old brother making up stupid stories about pigs with the sole purpose of putting her to sleep.

That's the man she invited along with the rest of the family for a roast, and that's the man she wants her son to meet. The one who finally put himself together, away from drugs, alcohol and prison.

(Needless to say, Liam is having none of it.)

It's an inhalation later and he's turning his head over his shoulder with an unreadable glint swirling in the pools of his brown irises. He stares at her own only a second before he moves a hand to skim over her sheet-covered calf, then upwards, until he's leaning forward slightly to reach her thigh. Cheryl thinks about stretching her toes and touching his tailbone, for no other reason than to see him shiver, oscillate like a pendulum at the coolness of the cotton sheets between them.

She doesn't move.

Soon, he's removed the sheets previously draped over his modesty, and he's crawling, two steps needed to pull the sheets away from her.

( _Breathe,_ she tells herself.)

Her lids are still half-shut as she looks up at him drowsily, cursing herself and cursing him for always managing to deprive her of the ability to breathe.  _Breathe,_ she tells herself.  _Breathe,_ she orders her brain as he lowers himself on her, every part of him covering her skin, a bit of perspiration gathering at the corner of his brow. He settles his hands by her head, leaving burnt-marks on the comforter, and his lips echo against her, touching but  _not quite_ , there but only  _barely_.

"Tell me to stay," he murmurs then. It's calm, like the morning blanket surrounding them. The minimal lighting offered by England's cloudy sky casts shadows over the slopes and the hollows of his chest.

She can't control herself when it comes to touching him, so she doesn't even try. She digs her nail in his collarbone and opens her lips almost compulsively, ready to speak but no words come out.

"Tell me to stay and I will," he repeats.

"You can't," she mumbles, because it's true.

There are times when she wants to run and tear the car's tires down if only to  _stall_  him from driving to that airplane. There are times when she wants to jump in that airplane  _herself_ , if only to stick like glue to his side. During other moments she selfishly wishes Bear could suddenly acquire the ability to speak and shout for his father to come back.

In other occasions Cheryl cries. Those are the most often ones, the ones that she knows get under Liam's tattooed skin and nestle there for weeks to come. In these occasions, Cheryl walks up to him, with salty tears running down her face, and kisses him. Animalistic almost, she grabs him, tears his Gucci hoodies off and jumps his bones  _right there_  on the spot. Whether it be in the kitchen or on the sofa or three steps away from their front door, she strips them both naked and makes sure to very  _thoroughly_ remind him what he's going to miss out on while he's away.

In those moments, she is the most greedy she's ever been.

 _Today,_  she stays silent. They still have weeks together, as his schedule revealed to them last night, and she doesn't need to rush - she stays silent. Today, it's about him and  _his_ desperation to stay. Today it's about him not being here on Father's Day. He asks her to be egotistical so that he can exonerate his own wish.

Today,  _he's_ the one being fucking selfish.

"I'm sorry," he utters, burying his head in the crook of her neck, inhaling her hair.

Today, she stays silent.

.

**December 2015**

"I'm fucked."

She barges in Kimberley's like it's nobody business, throwing her shades at the couch nearest to her and running a palm through her hair whilst trying to remember how to breathe.

_Fuck.FUCK._ **_FUCK._ **

As she frantically paces around, she doesn't even pay a second glance to Kimberley, who's standing in the middle of the living room with her hands frozen knuckle deep into Bobby's diaper, her face midway between incredulous and utterly lost.

"Uh," Kimberley sounds, looking minutely back at Bobby who looks back at her with a face that almost reads -  _she crazy?_

"Maybe we can talk about this a bit later -"

"No, you don't understand Kimberley," Cheryl quickly cuts her off, her patience running short. "I'm fucked, as in  _being_ fucked, literally.  _Fucked._ " She motions with her hands, flinging them around as she tries to convey the message to Kimberley.

Kimberley frowns. "This is definitely not a conversation to have around a one year old -"

" _Kimberley!_ " She exclaims, finally stopping, and the whole room seems to still. "It's Liam," she whispers, her eyes fleeting to the ground.

The silence between them flexes and stretches, until she's sure she can hear her own heartbeat. She doesn't dare look upwards for fear of what her eyes will meet.  _Judgement? Disgust?_

Somehow, the thought of Kimberley looking at her with anything other than love and acceptance makes her heart sink to her stomach. Kimberley is her backbone, the connective tissue holding her together at the seams when eveything else seems to fail her. Heck, Kimberley was the first person to have ever made Cheryl question her damn sexuality, in a platonic,  _non-platonic_ way. 

Sone part of her must be in love with her, surely. Cheryl loves Kimberleyin a way that no man or woman can comprehend except from  _them._  It's a love nurtured throughout drunken escapades, broken marriages, throngs of paparazzi and most importantly  _presence._  Kimberley always has been, and always will be the most present person in her life, more present than Cheryl is herself.

Sometimes Cheryl wonders how can a person love another so much and not be  _in_ love with them.

(Well if her luck is anything to go by, maybe she should go full lesbian.

_My supporters would love that.)_

She doesn't want to look into her eyes now. She regrets even coming here. She's terrified of Kimberley's presence, and that  _terrifies_ her.

Finally, there's a cough.

"Please tell me that you're talking about the  _fat_ ,  _bald, hasn't-had-a-bath-in-a-year_ Liam that sells snapdogs at Heaton Park and not the -"

"Actual, multi-millionaire,  _one fourth-of-the-biggest-_ _boyband_ _-in-the-world-which-has-just-taken-a-long-break_  Liam? Also commonly referred to as Liam Payne?" She interrupts, rolling her eyes and running a hand over her face shortly after.

She feels  _ashamed._

It's silence again, and this time, Chery's eyes find Kimberley's, whose hands are still cradling a now sleeping Bobby's arse.

And then -

"You  _fucked_  Liam Payne?!"

Cheryl's head whips around so fast that she hears a snap, and instantly she is greeted with the sight of an open-mouthed Nicola holding two cups of  _nothing,_ as the tea Cheryl assumes had been in them is now trickling down Nicola's lovely green sweater.

Kimberley sighs.

Cheryl shakes her head and groans. "What the hell is  _she_ doing here?" She whines, looking off to the distance and realizes she got way much more than she bargained for. Then, she stops, narrowing her eyes whilst she glares at Kimberley, then back at Nicola. "Are you'se having a slumber party without us?"

Kimberley scoffs, finally cleans her hands with a baby wipe and fumbles around with Bobby's diaper, "I think that's hardly the problem here-"

"Yes, let's go back to the  _getting the dick_ part please -"

"Nicola!" Cheryl looks at her in horror, her lips curling in disdain.

"Girls, this is really inappropriate -"

And Cheryl, already at the end of her fuse, blows up.

"What, that I let a barely legal kid have us?!"

"Cheryl-"

"Elaborate on the  _have_ bit please -"

" _Nicola!"_ Both Cheryl and Kimberley shout, and Nicola jumps, spilling more tea in the process before she slams both mugs on the counter and determinedly walks over to Bobby, picking him up.

" _Fine,"_ she states, walking away, with an aggravated push on her steps. " _But I'm stealing your fucking clothes!"_ She shouts from the top of the stairs, before she starts cursing as Bobby's wails echo around the house.

It's silence all over again. And with silence, comes the crushing realization of what she's done.

Cheryl exhales shakily and chokes a sob back. They're standing far away from each other, and her hands are trembling, small, thin and delicate, burrowing at the wool of her sweater as a tear rolls down. The same hands that drunkenly eased Liam's shirt off his chest three days ago. The same hands that clutched at the sheets beneath her as he fucked her into oblivion. 

The same hands that  _sinned_.

She doesn't even have to speak.

It's half a second before she breathes a broken  _Kimba_ and the warm, clummy flesh of her best-friend's body already molds with her own, arms wrapped around her like iron steel, and as she looks down at herself and sees her pants loose around her waist, her chest floating in the oversized sweater her husband left behind, she  _hates_ herself.

Kimberley flutters kisses underneath her ear just like all those years ago, whispering  _It's okay,_ and  _I love you_ like a prayer.

But all that remains -

She's never felt so  _pathetic._

_._

**November 2015**

"Liam!" She exclaims, almost tripping over her skyscraper-tall heels.

_God, sound more desperate Cheryl, you can do it._

She's walking quick, although she's sure she looks as if she's sprinting down the negative space between them to X-factor crew bystanders. And in all honesty, she's wishing she was. She wishes she could take her shoes off, throw them to the side of the mahogany carpet and blister the soles of her feet from running to get to him.

Obviously, she can't.

Instead, her face flushes, and her chest quivers from exertion. She moves a bit faster as he disappears around the corner, entering a new corridor.

_Dammit._

The truth is, he looked sad. Not the crying, blood-shot,  _not-eating-half-the-day's-meals-like-Cheryl_ type of sad. But in the split seconds she managed to grip his arm right before they were going live on air, she saw the low curve of his lips, the dullness in his eyes. Before she could confront him, a body guard she didn't know and quite frankly didn't care to learn about stuck a palm to the small of his back and just like that - he was gone, taking a seat in the audience.

Now, she's horrified to realize that it's instinctive that she's going after him, like it feels natural,  _right_ _._

She thinks about Kismet and other movements as she crosses the corridor and turns the corner where he was a second ago.

(Lily's words about fate and Turkish soap operas are stuck in her head - " _you haven't met your soulmate unless you're still chasing him."_ )

She tries not to think about how that is exactly what she's doing.

"Liam!" It's more of a breathy shout than his actual name. It's desperate, foolish and fucking embarrassing, but she feels relieved when she sees him stop at the end of the corridor, 25 steps away. "Hey," she exhales, when he turns to look at her over his shoulder.

He has a lopsided, small, smile on his face when he realizes it's her, and Cheryl can't help the fluttering of her heart, choosing to believe that it's the only real smile he's displayed all day.

All week maybe.

( _D_ _on't kill the dream, okay?_ )

He mutters something to Mr. Broad Shoulders in front of him and starts walking back to her. She feels suddenly thankful that it's just them in this corridor, and she stays where she is, unsure of what to make of his stride.

Excited, angry, happy, tired?

"Hey Chez,"  _tired._

He drags her name in the end and it sounds like a sloppy drawl.

She doesn't know why her fucking stomach does summersaults.

She swallows, looks up at him in his black cotton t-shirt and wonders when exactly during all the years she's known him, his face started leaning more towards  _I'm hot, fuck me,_ from  _I'm an awkward lemon._

"Hey," she says again, because she's not sure  _what_  to say. "Leaving already?" She asks instead.

"Yeah," he scratches the back of his head. "I just - I don't want to get caught up in all the madness, you know?"

Even now, his eyes are traveling all over the room, looking at everything but her. She wants to slap him, grab his chin and force him to look at her.

See Cheryl makes a habit out of liking people. She tends to see the likeability in everyone, even when, in all honesty, there isn't any. And the fact that she feels her hands itch to comfort Liam is only partly due to the fact that he is the most likeable piece of adorable awkwardness she's ever met.

The other reason is that damn phonecall. The other reason is that he called her in Rome with breaks in his voice, with shaky sighs and troubled thoughts.

The other reason is that Liam knows everything about her currently headed to shit life and yet he doesn't say anything about it. He knows more than the whole nation thinks it does, and yet he hasn't spoken anything since that day in the bathroom.

They haven't talked in days, and the problem is that Cheryl fucking understands why. She can tell his fidgeting from miles away, his light brown eyes betraying him far earlier than his actions do.

"Are you okay?" She cuts to the chase, aims for a sympathetic smile but she thinks it looks more desperate than anything as Liam's face slightly softens. The razor-sharpness washes it self away and she watches him look down at his pointy, polished black shoes.

"I'm better, I guess."

There's something about Liam that always demands a response. The way his shoulders hunch or the quickness of his palms as they hide away in his pockets. She can't not do anything.

But much to her horror, her body decides that  _it_ can't not do anything.

And before she has that much needed moment to just pause and do some inner reflecting, that moment when  _normally_ she would tell herself :  _The fuck are you thinking Cheryl, you're fucking married, he has a crush and he's a kid, get it together ABORT, FUCKING STOP -_

Her brain shuts the conversation down. She's leaning forward with her arms outstretched and her head thumps softly on his chest, feeling his heart thump back almost in response.

Her hands wrap themselves around his waist and  _has he always been this tiny?_

She ignores the rigidness in his posture, the way his whole being tenses, and she ignores the way her heart swells when she realizes he's small enough that her hands can web themselves together at the small of his back.

But she can't ignore this :

"Cheryl," he murmurs. This time sombre, still tense, alert. "Please don't."

She knows this part all too well. She's the one who put the barriers between them, and now she's greedily hammering open a hole in them, wanting to reach to the other side where he is and nestle there if possible.

"I'm sorry," but she only tightens her arms.

Hesitantly, and with a pinch of salt, she feels his soft, smooth fingers tangle underneath the end of her high ponytail. His body pressed against her and she makes herself at home against his heart, close to the cradle of his shoulder. His stubble tickles the top of her hair, tall even over her heels.

It feels like the best hug she's ever received.

"Don't be," he doesn't move. "There's no point."

She's caught off guard from the tone of his voice, and she doesn't resist the overwhelming to look at him. Laser-focused and feeling worse for wear, Cheryl's eyes cover themselves with a sheen of sadness without her permission.

He stares back and she knows this is by far the biggest crime she's ever committed. She pried it out of him when he was least ready to admit it, she made him believe, she's the reason behind the besotted  but utterly heartbroken gleam in his eyes.

The biggest crime she's ever committed ; she let him fall for her.

She'd convinced herself that she could pretend it isn't her fault ; these things happen and sometimes they sweep the carpet off your feet.

"Why does this feel like a goodbye?" She whispers, lowering her eyes to his lips and they way they press tightly together. His nostrils are flaring, and he gives her the answer even before he's spoken.

"Maybe it is."

The carpet's been sweeped and she's already hit the ground.

His hands leave only cold space behind as he pulls them away and guides her own off him, stepping back.

She only stares, frozen in the middle of the corridor with a tear escaping the confines of it's prison.

And then -

"Bye Chez," he's turned around with a palm on his face and strode away so fast.

So fast he's gone.

And she stands.

Alone.

Crying, because the last glimpse she caught of his face gave her an epiphany ;

 _She's_  the one who sweeped the carpet from underneath them both.

.  
  
  
  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

_Passionate from miles away, passive with the things you say, passing up on my old ways._

.

**March 2016**

"Tell me it's not fucking true."

They don't talk. They never do, not after a break-up. He didn't talk with Danielle, not when he was a young, naive rising star, and certainly not now, with the woman that he somehow thought he loved but at the same time neglected.

They don't talk, but Cheryl is currently on her phone to her management, cursing and swearing when, in fact, she should be enjoying the sun, and he's never felt so angry.

 _"Liam,"_ she sighs at the other end of the line. " _Don't get your_ _knickers_ _in a_ _twist_ _. I_ _didn't_ _say_ _that_ _stuff_."

"Soph," he says gently, huffing out a breath and feeling suddenly deflated, like there's no argument left in him. "Please. They'll think she cheated."

Silence.

_"Did she?"_

Liam narrows his brows, turning away from the sight of his girlfriend clenching her fists in the kitchen and heading towards the windows of his apartment.

"She's not like that.  _We_ are not like that," he mutters, feeling frustrated that he's caught in this whirlwind of attention when his newfound romance is already on the rocks. Just last month he managed to get Cheryl to stay. He doesn't need this shit right now.

He hears a scoff and closes his eyes, knowing this is a fight he'll never win.

" _Look,_ _you_ _and I both know_ _this_ _whole_ _thing_ _is_ _bullshit_ _,_ _ok_ _?"_ She states, her usually dulcet tones filled with annoyance. " _The_ _problem_ _is not_ _what_ _I_ _might_ _have_ _or_ _might_ _have_ _not_ _said_ _, the_ _problem_ _is that_ _sooner_ _or_ _later_ _,_ _someone_ _would_ _say_ _it."_

"Sophia-"

 _"Don't!"_ She spits. " _Don't_ _drag_ _me_ _into_ _this_ _, Liam. He_ _asked_ _me_ _what_ _I felt about_ _our_ _relationship. I_ _answered_ _him but I_ _didn't_ _know he_ _would_ _go_ _out_ _posting_ _the_ _shit_ _he did."_

"Why would you do that?!" He growls back. "You know them. You know all they care about is selling a fucking story!"

" _Because I_ _have_ _the_ _right_ _to fucking_ _speak_ _!"_ She shouts back. " _You_ _really_ _wanna_ _know?"_

She doesn't give him time to reply.

_"Yes I_ _think_ _it's fucking_ _weird_ _! I_ _didn't_ _tell_ _him I_ _knew_ _about_ _you_ _two, he made that_ _shit_ _up. Although I did. I_ _knew_ _Liam, because_ _you_ _told_ _me_ _. And_ _do_ _you_ _remember_ _what_ _the_ _first_ _thing_ _I told_ _you_ _was? Huh?"_

It doesn't matter that he thinks  _yes_ _,_ _yes_ _I_ _do_ _._

She was always faster than him. Always quicker and more precise with her blows.

Always right.

" _I told_ _you_ _to_ _buckle_ _up and_ _enjoy_ _the_ _fucked_ _-up_ _ride_ _you_ _chose_ _to get on!"_

The line is dead.

.

**January 2016**

"She's leaving me."

Louis sighs for the hundredth time in the space of a minute.

"You're being a drama queen," he grumbles, picking a cookie up and staring at it thoroughly to decide if it's worth being eaten.

Liam almost wants to punch it out of his hand. He has insecurities, like every human does, and he realizes now that talking about them with Louis, the prince of sarcasm, might not have been one of his brightest ideas to date.

"Why did I call you?" He mutters under his breath, sipping his coffee lightly, but noticing Louis's scowl from the corner of his eye.

Louis bites into the cookie like his life depends on it. "I've been asking that question internally for the last hour and a half." He states, tapping his fingers against the table.

Liam sighs, crossing his arms over the surface of the wood and looking out and away, towards the busy streets outside. He cannot relax to the point of release when she's not near. He can't seem to lift his lips when he knows her dimples won't be flashing at him, but someone else, a random stranger at an airport.

"How's Briana?" He asks instead, slowly brushing away the matter at hand with a flick of his tongue and a swift change of subject.

Louis narrows his eyes and puts his half eaten cookie down.

"Pregnant," he replies, emptily.

Liam nods, still thinking about Cheryl's brunette wisps and the wind messing them about that day they built snowmans in December. He nods but all he can concentrate on is the image of her cheeks flushing red from the cold and her petite form hunched over her tiny, slightly worse for wear creation.

She'd put two mistletoes on the face for eyes, because she wanted eyelashes, she'd told him.

She'd made a snowman so tiny that Buster and Coco towered over it easily, so tiny that Liam could see Cheryl's hands tremble in her efforts to gather more snow and make him fatter.

 _Don't laugh at him because he's short,_ she had pouted.

He had melted into a pool faster than his snowman did under the sun.

He comes back to reality with a painful slap at the back of his neck. He groans on pain, and looks at Louis sheepishly.

"Get it together, for fuck's sake, she's going to her best friend's wedding."

Liam shakes his head.

It's not just a wedding.

It's a wedding in Barbados. It's a wedding in Barbados that he can't attend, but a dozen other hot, exotic men, can.

Most importantly, it's another week without Cheryl in his arms.

Another week to miss her.

It scares him but his relationship with Cheryl is so  _frail_  and fragile that he's resorted to counting the  _seconds_  between them as time during which it is possible that he will  _lose_  her. He measures his kisses with Cheryl as kisses that remain before he fucks up and they crash to pieces.

He stares at the ground and views it as a place where any mistake can happen and he will never see her again.

He  _loves_ her already and he's so afraid that he feels bile rising at the back of his throat, heart raging and breathing short.

"What if she changes her mind?" He whispers pathetically and suddenly wishes it was Niall in front of him instead, with his Irish humor and a comforting arm ready to pat his back.

But it's not Niall. It's Louis.

And they both know it, and they stay silent.

Liam stays silent knowing another day without her is another day with no comforts for him.

.

**January** **201** **5**

" _I feel like late night conversations on the phone are becoming our thing,"_ she's chuckling down his ear and he sighs in relief, happy that she's happy.

_More like early morning._

He tucks a palm in the pocket of his Armani suit, and looks back towards the dancing floor, where Sophia and Niall are dancing their asses off.

He smiles softly and looks away. "Maybe," he murmurs, satisfied with how his day is ending. "This is moving too fast for me Chez, it's a big step -"

She laughs, wholeheartedly, and a weight lifts off the whole club, his eyes a little brighter and his grin sharper, more defined. He wonders how she does it.

" _God,"_ the happiness is so palpable in the tones of her voice that she's almost singing. " _I love you_ _Payno_ _,"_ she states lowly then, so low that Liam strains to hear her, imagines he has heard wrong.

(He knows he didn't. She said it, and now the way her Geordie accent curls around  _that_ word will forever replay in his mind like a broken tape.)

"Are you drunk?" He asks her with humor lacing his question, if only to stop the racing of his heart from showing at her admission.

 _"No,"_ she laughs again.

She's so  _happy._

" _Thank you, Liam. For everything babe. I do love you."_

And really what can you say to that? His name sounds warm, like dripping honey, and he finds himself swooning. Maybe his intellect isn't enough to process her words and answer back appropriately. He wonders if falling in love will always feel like playing as a substitute.

There's that short, bittersweet moment of glory, but no end goal.

He tilts his head upwards and listens Sophia's laughs from far away,  _universes_ away. So far that all he knows is Cheryl's breaths and his sighs.

 _Love is safe,_ he reminds himself.

"Don't worry about it," he replies, finally.

She's humming a tune now and he can make out strong voices on the background, muffled and undistinguishable. She speaks something in half-French, half-English, and giggles again.

" _Babe,"_ she shouts. " _Happy new Year!"_

He leans a shoulder on the tiled wall and watches Sophia blow him a kiss.

"Happy New Year, Chez." He states, smiling gently. His eyes fond and his hands warm. "I love you, too."

Almost in delirium, she laughs again and then there's only static in his ear.

.

**December 2015**

The knots loosen, and he knows it is all boiling down to this.

Every conversation, every stolen glance they have ever exchanged, the steadily increasing phone-calls with ever decreasing meaning, and  _that_ drunken escapade.

Liam licks his lip and pretends he's not shivering, acts as if the rain plummeting down on him isn't making his blood feel like haywire under his skin.

He licks his lip and he sees Cheryl's face soften. A strange kind of soft, a longing kind of gleam in her eyes and he decides then and there that he won't speak - he won't  _move_ lest those beautiful eyes leave his.

He shifts his weight because, quite frankly, he's shitting himself, has been since the moment he threw himself in his car and unceremoniously showed up at her doorstep. He doesn't look away, but he can make out her expanding ribs in the darkness, like she's breathing forcefully, her knuckles white where she's curled them against the door.

He thinks, maybe, this is it.

Liam will freeze on this porch right here and it will be alright. It will be okay because she's finally I'm front of him. She's _there._  They've been avoiding each other like the plague but now she's real, and solid, and  _there._

The wind howls and he buries his palms under his armpits, in an attempt to keep himself warm for long enough to watch her.

But he knows it's too good to be true.

He catches the movement from the corner of his eye, the door slowly closing without them having exchanged a single word.

_It's okay. She was worth it._

He closes his eyes, his leather jacket dripping water on her white, polished wooden porch. He doesn't want to see her as she's closing the door on him, shutting him out.

Liam doesn't cry. But he's surprised to find out that it's not rain falling down his face but a single teardrop. He made a mistake. He kissed her, they were drunk. They slept in a dingy hotel room.

Although sleep was the last thing they really did.

He's lost her now.

He clenches his fist and succumbs to this feeling - he doesn't recognize it, but he feels its weight, like it's wrapped in cellophane, present, but not quite distinguishable.

_It's okay._

There's a flash of lightning but its echo isn't enough to prepare him for the moment that follows.

All of a sudden, he feels a short, hot breath tickling his stubble and then soft, soft,  _soft,_ lips on his. Supple, warm. There are delicate, clammy palms cradling his face, hooking under his ears and caressing the skin there. There's a sweater clad body small enough to tuck against his chest where his arms are crossed.

She kisses him. Liam's so taken aback that he stands, stock still, waiting to wake up.

He remains so motionless that she pulls away but not too far, just close enough that he feels her stare burn through his eyelids, her puffs of air meeting his skin and initiating some reaction inside him that leaves him with  _want_  lodged in his throat.

"Liam," she whispers then, right in his mouth, like all the times she's breathed in his ear, miles away when there's oceans separating them and a humongous time difference.

He keeps his eyes closed. He doesn't talk.

Talking is overrated.

"Liam," she breathes again and he knows she's trembling, now under the rain herself. "Liam," she murmurs, like his name is sacred and between the two of them, a prayer.

She's leaving sweet, tiny, almost non-existent kisses on his lips and after a while, she kisses his nose.

Cheryl kisses his cheek, his forehead - he imagines her on her tiptoes, trying to reach him.

He opens his eyes.

(All hell breaks loose.)

He has her in his arms in a matter of seconds, attacking her lips and pushing her with all that he has back inside the safety of her house. She's kissing him back and he smiles when he feels her tongue prodding at his bottom lip, forcing his mouth open and deepening the kiss.

Her hands tighten on the back of his neck and he slams the door shut with the heel of his foot.

They don't stop.

He has half a mind to dislodge and stare at her, hair messed up and face flustered like she's been running for hours.

"Are you sure?" He asks, because he'll be damned if he makes the same mistake again.

"No," she replies, piercing through his eyes.

It should have been alerting, worrying.

But the honesty in her voice matters to him more in that moment than what she's actually saying, and he feels suddenly elated as he hooks his hands under her thighs and picks her up.

She's so small, so tiny, and it's almost instinct that makes Liam want to wrap himself around her and never let her go.

Her fingers dig themselves in his tousled hair, and he groans at the feeling of her nails scraping his skull. He curses inwardly at himself for wearing tight jeans - he's restricted, imprisoned in his clothes, when all he wants to be is naked, over Cheryl, on any horizontal surface within a step's radius, preferably fucking her into forgetting her name.

Cheryl abandons Liam's hair to claw at his back, digging crescents into the leather and leaving open mouthed kisses on the length of his jaw as he stumbles forward, blindly trying to reach the stairs.

It's taking more than a little self-control, (and sanity), to resist throwing her on the floor and ripping her clothes off. He feels emotion seep through the edges of his eyes as Cheryl pushes and pulls and manoeuvres herself, grinding on the hardness between his thighs, strands of hair giving and breaking under her ministrations.

"God," he bites out. "What are you doing to me?" He rasps, closing his eyes and stopping momentarily, thinking he knows what finding absolute bliss means when she rolls her tongue under his ear, her teeth grazing his earlobe.

This is so much  _better._

So much  _more_ than last time. Much more sober, and true.

"Liam," she puts her mouth on his ear, giving him goosebumps. " _Move_  or I swear to God, I'll go down on you right  _here_."

He considers laughing at the desperation lacing her voice. He quickly chokes on his chuckle when her hand shoots down to his abdomen, cupping him through the hard material of his pants and leaning back with fiery eyes.

"Try me," she growls, tightening the grip she has, and trapping his waist more forcefully between her thighs.

It was never gonna be easy with them two.

He pushes forward and manages to carry her up the stairs and to bed.

The frenzied, passionate pace they managed to build downstairs slows, the tension rising, and the air between them imperceptibly shifting. Cheryl is stretched across the bed like a cat, languidly arching her back for Liam's entertainment.

He finds himself mesmerized, captivated by her deep brown orbs, pinning him in front of the bed, unable to move, to  _inhale._  Some part of him, tucked away deep in a dusty corner of his brain (which has seemingly shut down since she rid herself of her blouse) reminds him this could very well be another one of his very vivid dreams.

A stupid, steely piece of his body straightens and hesitates, asking him with no words ;  _how can you deserve this_?

And it's during times like this one, when he tries to force his insecurities into submission and they elude him, that he dies to feel vodka on his tongue, take a bit off the edge until he feels insensitive enough to fuck without a problem.

He's sweating whilst considering it, and it's only now that he realizes Cheryl is standing in front of him, head tilted in a curious, with a hint of placating, way.

"Liam," she whispers, her chest rising in the darkness and he can solely see because of the flashes of light from outside her windows. "Stop. Stop thinking."

"I can't," he chokes out. What is this? What are they doing?

Cheryl extends two small, tentative hands forward, and slowly unbuckles his belt. She comes closer as he stands still, tense as a bow ready to shoot the arrow. He's struggling with reading or speaking emotions,  _as always,_ and as she's pulling the fabric out of his belt loops, and reaches behind to discard her bra, he wishes he wasn't.

He's imagined this a hundred times, a slick operation, has given layers over layers over layers over _layers_ of thought into the machinations of his carefully constructed, thoroughly checked and mildly approved plan to just  _be_ with her.

Liam has fame, living behind a glass like a mannequin exposed to the crowd, but he doesn't want it. He doesn't care about the money he earns in his sleep through endorsements, sponsors and crazy fans. He's been crafted into a person that  _they_ want but he dislikes, a multi-millionaire popstar with a team of people around him bigger than a club's roster.

And they can give it all to him. Fame, expensive hotels, vulgar grooming routines and about a million girls going to sleep with his smile (or his dick) on their minds.

All except one thing.

_This. Her._

He looks down and stares at her glory. She presses herself closer, moulded on his front. Her breasts are sticking to his like second skin, her heart raging under her skin and he can feel it,  _touch_ it.

She slowly removes his jacket, a smile playing at her lips because she knows that whatever it is they've been doing, whatever game they've started, is coming to an end and she's come out on top.

She made her own rules and had her own way. And he let her.

Which is fine, because Liam never knew the rules anyway.

He breathes when she lays her lips on his taut neck, kissing softly at his birthmark. She traces her fingers over the flimsy, thin material of his cotton shirt and he imagines this is what reading Braille must feel like. She knows all his movements, all his reactions because he guesses, it's not the kind of knowledge she allows herself to have a lack of.

Next is his top.

Then his jeans, and last, his boxer briefs.

He's standing naked and exposed in front of the woman of his wildest fantasies.

_Oh God._

She's scanning him with her eyes, and he's conscious. Conscious of his muscles, his not so broad shoulders and his narrow waist, his musculature and the color if his skin. He's conscious of the mini, sub-dermal reactions of his muscles and how his manhood is already painfully erect even though they haven't even properly entered the foreplay area yet.

All his confidence from downstairs seems to have abandoned him the minute he climbed those stairs, as if it tricked him into stepping past the threshold of her bedroom and then left him there to die.

Slowly, and painfully, under her gaze.

"I-"

She puts a finger over his lips. She's stripped herself down to nothing as well.

Cheryl doesn't waver, pinning him with her eyes when her palm slides easily between his legs. He's groaning with his arms around her waist, trying to keep her warm against the onslaught of goosebumps while trying to find some sort of support himself.

But he finds it hard to stand as one hand scratches at the baby hair on the back of his neck and the other caresses his manhood repeatedly, nestling it in her clammy, soft fingers.

He moans in her ear and grabs at her bottom, watching in fascination as the back of his palm contrast against the vivid red covering the dimples on her back. She moans back in his and tightens her grip further, his body tensing and buckling under the pleasure.

She keeps moving her palm in circular motions and Liam is afraid he's going to come just from  _this,_ just from the feeling of her nails grazing the crown of his cock and her mouth lazily opened by his ear.

She goes faster and speaks, "stop thinking, just act."

Liam grunts heavily and bends slightly, wishing she would slow down because he can't fathom anything right now, much less talk.

" _Chez,_ " he huffs, "I'm, just- would you-"

She's reduced him to a blubbering mess. Cheryl leans back and rubs faster if possible looking at him with such intensity that he almost cries out in pure  _want,_ but he buries his face in her neck and bites down on it instead.

She moans and squeezes in reprimand, laughing breathless in his hair and  _milking_ him and his hands are on her soft, supple breasts, pressing so close that he can't tell whose skin belongs to whom and-

He's aware he's losing it. He's vaguely aware of the noises he's making, his guttural grunts and the grit of her teeth as leans her head towards his and thumps her forehead on his cheek. He's almost doubled over, stooped down to her height and shaking against her in a last, futile attempt to keep himself upright.

But then she purrs, "let go baby," in his ear and presses a thumb on his slit and it's over.

Liam hisses from the force of it and locks her so tight against him that when he  _does_ finally come, they're both tumbling down to the bed, her hair escaping their tight bun as she falls and his arms clutching at her upper chest like a lifeline.

" _Fuck,"_ he breathes.

She's moaning in his ear as his knee ended up wedged between her thighs, arching her hips and despite the state of his haze, he flits a palm down and touches her.

" _Ah, shit!"_ She cries out, throwing her head back and biting down on her bottom lip while curling her hand further around his strained member. He's sweating and there's thunder outside and all he can bring himself to care about is how her legs wrap themselves around him, his manhood ready and willing for another round despite the earlier ministrations.

She screams and drags him down to her lips forcefully when he thumbs at her clit.

There are cheque writers out there, and publicists and a woman with well-manicured nails finely attuning his wardrobe, a management team working hard to shape his glassy career, transparent and brittle into success and fame, with potential to promise him the universe of only he sits down on his hands, bites his lips and behaves.

There are people wielding cameras and girls masturbating over him and guys wanting to  _be_ him.

He doesn't care.

All he wants - no, all he  _needs,_ for the rest of his fucking life, is the sight of her face he's inside her.

Her nails in his back and her lips flailing on his, her voice whining and hips rocking fast. Her stomach contracting and her breasts gleaming with perspiration. The hollow of her neck getting sharper and her jaw unhinged as she struggles to breath.

Her eyes.

 _God,_ her eyes.

They're enough to push everything into submission.

He doesn't need confidence.

He fucking needs  _her._

_._   
  



	7. Chapter 7

_You are loved more than you know._   
_I hereby pledge all of my days_   
_To prove it so._

.

**December 2015**

“Do they seriously all call you daddy?”

It’s a bit embarrassing and Cheryl is on the verge of swallowing back a venomous remark when Liam smiles awkwardly and takes a sip of his Bacardi.

“Not all of them,” he replies, a blush working its way across his cheeks and she feels herself swoon at the sight of him. “It’s just a joke.” He mumbles then, cringing ever so lightly.

The truth is that ever since their little talk, a week ago, she’s felt even more protective of him than she already was.

 _A lot_.

She finds herself warming up to him, thinks about the crinkles by his eyes and soon realizes that they need to remain unscathed at all costs. She stops, brushing stray hair off her forehead and looks at him. What she sees is  _innocence_.

Even now, when there are a million- something girls probably thinking about his cock and what it can possibly do now that the band is out and about.

With a huff, she lets her eyes fall, feeling a rush in her veins and recognizing it for what it is.

 _Jealousy_.

“We've all heard about the Payne Train.” Niall is drunk and Cheryl forgives him for that, although her cheeks brighten and in a split second her eyes travel to Liam's crotch in curiosity and wonder.

Maybe she should do some google research.

After all, the 1D fans are known to be quite crazy. Perhaps penis girth and sizes aren’t far out of reach from their inspective hands and borderline obsessed brains.

 _Cheryl, you’re fucking drunk_.

She averts her gaze and attempts to return back to her infallible sense of self-preservation and  _logic_ , like want and longing isn’t dripping off her whole body like a pool of sweat.

All because of  _him_.

There’s a vibration in her purse, and she debates ignoring it. She knows she shouldn’t be here, that it will only cause further complications, with him, the  _other_  him, but for once, she doesn’t give a shit.

(She does, and that is why in approximately 13 minutes she will decide to leave the warmth of her chair and walk out the door of Simon’s expensive mansion.)

Her life is now measured in fucking  _hims_ , and failed marriages.

Absently, she stares at the fire roaring by the couch. She guessed that he would have gotten latest technology fireplace, the fake ones that show up on tour screen and give you warmth that you can see but can not touch, can not feel or be burned from the proximity.

She sighs and brings the liquor to her lips, as her phone shakes again, buried deep under a barely manageable amount of hair product and lipsticks and bronzers confined in her tiny purse. 

Is that what happened to her marriage?

A perfect looking couple with the perfect marriage that she didn’t feel like she belonged in. It sounds so horrible when she thinks about it but mostly, what terrifies her is that it’s absolutely  _true_. As spring turned to summer, Cheryl found herself watching her marriage unfold in front of her eyes along with the rest of the world.

Jean-Bernard and his affiliations with her became an image in a case, behind glass and put on display for passer-bys to feast on.

And the worst part is that this time,  _she_  let it happen.

She let his smiles and his touches turn to mindless grins and abstract movements that only counted as burdens.

She allowed late nights in the bedroom with him become nothing more than beard-burn between her thighs, a hard cock which played part in an important equation ; sex.

But it was  _just_  that ;  _sex_.

They fell apart faster than Britney did. He had a well-defined chest, a big enough gun and arms with veins the size of her bank account. He had a sense of control about him that Cheryl has always found inherently attractive but later regretted ever succumbing to.

Her phone vibrates and she makes the mistake of digging it up, abandoning her crystalline glass on the table in front of her and tuning the noise of any conversation out, his words flashing on the screen and momentarily blinding her with pain.

_Hope you’re having fun. Bonne_ _nuit_ _._

He’s not even there, (not just at the X-Factor after party but in her life, generally), but she can sense the sarcasm in overtones, understand its effects without being able to touch it, feel it.

 _Yes_ , she thinks, smiling shakily at Liam who has a frown directed at her, the rest of the table immersed deep in pointless chatter.  _Just like fire behind a screen._

She gets up, and without so much as a word, she leaves.

.

**August 2014**

The thing about Jean is that he's very, very,  _muchly_ , charming.

He is hot enough to hold her up and fuck her against a wall if she needs him to and funny enough to make her pee herself as he tries to pronounce some of the words found on the more demanding side of an English dictionary.

He is French, humorous, motivated, and rich enough to intimidate her.

The last part is what she couldn’t give two shits about.

Most importantly, he is now her  _husband_.

She’s sprawled out on the chaise-longue at their balcony, staring at the view almost in awe.

Sweat is glistening on his skin and he has a baseball cap on, his arms looking greasy from some French sunscreen he put on earlier and some black tape around his knuckles, boxing the air like his life depends on it.

His naked chest stands out against the back of endless sea and a heart-warming sunset in Malaga suddenly seems poor in comparison to the man lightly but strategically moving around the tiled space, huffing breaths out that Cheryl would much rather swallow than just listen to.

She’s naked and aching and she knows that they’ve just stopped, her own heaving chest being proof that she has had more than her fair share of fucking to last her a lifetime, but then her eyes cut to his arms and her mind ever-so-kindly provides her with graphic images of where those hands could alternatively be and  _she.wants.more_.

His eyes flit to hers for a second, and his mouth curls to a dirty, lopsided smile, before returning to his intense workout like nothing happened.

 _Bastard_.

Hopelessly, she reaches for her phone, and thumbs at her twitter in a futile effort to get her head out of the gutter and her breathing back in control. She laughs at a few things her fans have posted, following a couple and subtly creeping on them when she decides to check on her DMs.

Mentally noting to look at those of her troubled supporters later, she rolls her eyes and smiles when she notices Liam's username appear at the bottom of the list.

It’s a photo of him covered from head to toe in Woody's clothes, his face scrunched up and his arms flexed to the point of no return.

 _Sue me_ , reads the caption.

She laughs again, heart growing fondly at his cuteness, (and strangely,  _beauty_?) and decides to message him.

_You look ridiculous,_ _Payno_ _._

At the sound of skin meeting surface she lifts her head and narrows her eyes when she realizes Jean isn’t where she left him. She looks around and chokes back a whimper at the sight of him doing push ups a few feet away from her.

Fucking tease.

_Thank you very kindly,_ _milady_ _. Haha, how are you Chez?_

She smiles warmly, composing herself and texting swiftly back ;

_All good babe, you? Did you enjoy that ice btw?_ _Xx_

_Ah, you little... I hate you for that just a tad_ _yano_ _._ _Nah_ _, I’m fine, just getting ready for a show later tonight, what are you up to?_

In a moment, she’s panicked, feeling a bit weird and almost dirty sitting here, naked, with her husband provocatively showing off his abs, texting Liam Payne nonsense whilst her head is preoccupied with Jean's tongue and hands and his dick.   
Is Liam naked? What? Stop.  _Stop_.  _Stop_.  ** _STOP_**.

_Nothing much. Just sitting. I’m in_ _Malaga_ _. Where are u?_

_Texas. It’s noon here and much less pleasant than in fucking Spain I would imagine... lucky you._

“..hey!” Cheryl snaps back to reality with a light slap on her calf. “I’ve been talking.”

She laughs and looks at her phone with a shrug. “Sorry, I spaced out just then.”

Jean's eyes narrow suddenly, his arms crossed on his chest and Cheryl shrinks slightly, confused at the abrupt change of mood.

“Who are you talking to?”

And right now, for no reason whatsoever, completely unjustified and with a hint of guilt at the back of her throat, she  _lies_.

She doesn’t know why, but Jean's face is tight and his muscles taut and she pictures Liam, young,  _innocent_  Liam next to him and winces, scared that something might go down even though she has no reason to believe so.

“Just one of my fans like,” she says instead, tightly smiling and hoping that her paranoid mind is just fucking with her.

And it probably is.

Jean's face immediately softens into the handsome, bright grin that she’s come to fall for and his eyes light up, as he reaches forward and approaches her.

“You’re funny,” he laughs, “I’m just joking.”

She sighs in relief and although her mind is still fiddled with thoughts of his previous expression, she smiles widely back and bites her lip, tossing the phone away as he strips off his shorts, naked underneath and already strained.

She raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow and stares at him. “Someone's being naughty?”

“C'est toi, non?” He murmurs, finally reducing the distance and looming over her. “Naked, for all the world to see.”

She leans back with a smirk and proudly puffs out her chest, feeling warmth spread all over and wetness gather between her thighs at the way he stares hungrily at the expanse of her body.

“Not everyone,” she whispers, staring back through hooded eyes. “Just you baby.”

He laughs darkly and it turns her on even more, suddenly crying out when he falls to his knees and spreads her legs with no warning, attaching his mouth to her clit and putting his tongue to good use.

He eats her out sloppily, holding her down as her hips undulate and her voice bottoms out, reaching its lowest register after she’s screamed all the pleasure away.

She tears up in delirium when he deftly enters her, his teeth biting down on a nipple mercilessly.

“ _God_ ,” she whimpers, her eyes rolling back. Her ears filled with the sound of his exhalation and their skins slapping together dangerously.

“Yes Cheryl?” He breathes back in her ear and the fucker has the nerve to be cheeky when she knows he's minutes away from groaning in absolute ecstasy.

It’s annoying, but admittedly,  _very_  admirable.

“Fuck you,” she states, and deciding to make good on her word, she takes him by surprise, pushing at his shoulders and throwing him at the cold floor.

She ignores the pained moan emitting from his mouth and instantly climbs back on him, lowering her lips on his as she resumes their previous rhythm.

And when she does eventually come, screaming out in Jean's mouth with his taped up palms covering her butt-cheeks and his voice carrying her through the orgasm with what she knows to be  _filthy_ , indecent remarks growled in French by the shell of her ear, she has half a mind to make out a notification sound far away.

Even as she slowly recovers from her high, moaning at the aftershocks as Jean once again leans up to take a breast into his warm mouth, she feels conscious ;

It’s the first time during or after sex with her boyfriend, (now husband), that her first, immediate, and most  _overwhelming_  thought isn’t that she wants more, but it's something else, or rather,  _someone_  else.

In fact, her  _only_  thought, is currently playing character dress-up in Texas, and it  _frightens_  her.

.

**August 2016**

She’s freaking out. Of course she is.

Liam Payne is a 23 year-old with lips that stretch to a smile and eyes brighter than the moon, hands calloused from the constant press of microphones against them and a lean body that looks nothing like her previous preferences.

Liam Payne is a 23 year-old period.

He has a bright fucking future in front of him, a glorious past behind him, and a present that Cheryl might destroy with two words, three maybe.

Their relationship isn’t about words. Liam means  _everything_. He’s become the thing she looks forward to during the days he's here and the thing she chases when he's not. Liam lets her have the first pick of everything even though he isn’t supposed to – a relationship is all about balance and mutuality but if the scale weighs a bit more on her side in terms of emotional baggage and wishes he doesn’t complain about it.

Liam hands her down his old, lush shirts and the new ones, that he hasn’t even outgrown, just so that she can have his smell around when he’s not there.

Liam is surprise ice-creams, well-planned dates away from manic paparazzi and lots of cuddles ; almost as many as the times he makes her scream out his name.

He has dark, brown eyes, ferocious in the bedroom and sweet like caramel anywhere else. He fucks with the horsepower of 20 men and touches with the delicacy of a loving partner.

Liam is  _everything_  – entire conversations made between blinks and secrets never meant to be spoken, communication in the form of body language and the set of his shoulders. She didn’t fall in love with him. It was already there. Like a breathing, living thing that grew, kept growing until it was too big to ignore.

When Cheryl thinks of that, she looks down at her stomach and sees their whole relationship accumulate to a  _single_  point in time.

The living, breathing thing between them is suddenly very,  _very_  real, and it’s in her.

And they’ve talked about this, of course, because Cheryl is 33 years old and even though that’s still relatively young, she doesn’t have all the time in the world. In fact, between being a popstar and essentially, media candy, she has no time at  _all_.

She wants to  _make_  time, and most of all, she wants to use it. She wants to be a mother.

Most importantly, she wants to be the mother of  _his_  child.

But, long story short, she’s panicking. In fact, she’s almost ready to make a run for it, possibly call Lily and buy a one-way ticket to Malaysia. She’ll be a nobody, with a fortune to spend on her child and probably end up becoming a nun.

_That’s it. Yes, a plan._

She feels herself hyperventilate, and decides to go pour herself some water before she actually goes through with her stupid subconscious.

She hasn’t even taken two steps when keys scratch the door, and while she’s losing her shit, forgetting the averagely but grammatically-correct-enough structured speech she’d prepared while washing her hands in front of the mirror in their huge bathroom, Liam's halfway into the living room, hands full with shopping bags and a snapback knocked askew on his hair.

Like a kid caught with a hand in the cookie jar, she stands stock still, petrified.

He enters the kitchen, and she's still - you guessed it -  _ **petrified.**_

“Well, hello to you too,” he states, standing in front of her with his head slightly tilted and eyes big and questioning.

Had she not thought of the million scenarios in which this could end in tears and heartbreaks and suitcases dragged down the driveway, she would almost find the whole situation comical.

She’s wearing Spongebob Squarepants pyjamas, her hair thrown into a random bun and her hands clasped together in front of her in some sort of desperate attempt to comfort herself.

He’s wearing a Gucci t-shirt, trackie bottoms and a Rolex worth more than a hundred paycheques. Standing there in nothing but enquiry written all over his face.

She inhales deeply.

_To hell with it._

“I'm pregnant.”

.

**January 2016**

“So.”

Cheryl hears the uncertainty, but the pure want in his voice overpowers anything else and she grabs at it greedily, tucking it away and burying deep in her chest to stay with her forever in the hopes that it won’t become tainted like the rest of her failed relationships.

She smiles, offering away her dimples at the sight of him on her doorstep once again, ignoring the happy screams and kisses coming from her lounging area.

He's  _here_.

“So,” she mumbles back, still staring, feeling all of a sudden at peace with herself and the world around her.

(He's  _here_.)

He looks down minutely, like an adorable schoolboy staring at the tips of his shoes with his hands buried in his pockets and his shoulders raised high, almost as if he’s trying to hide his blushing face away.

 _God_ , she hopes he never changes.

He sighs and laughs lightly at their ridiculous predicament. She’s covered clad in a Grinch onesie and he has a Christmas bonnet on his head.

They're both cold and shivering, just like the last time, (and the time before that ; although that was in a hotel far from here), but  _this_ time, she's never been more certain of anything.

With a healthy dose of assertiveness, Cheryl reaches out to bring him closer, wondering if now is the right time to admit that she’s been waiting all night long for this  _exact_  moment.

“Happy New Year,” he whispers, seconds before she makes the decision for them both and stands on her toes to claim his slightly blue lips.

She kisses him for all the times she’s wanted to, for the two morning afters that they should have had but, for completely different reasons, didn't manage to get.

She kisses him and tastes a bit of rum, turkey sandwich and a crisp, sharp sense of  _just Liam_. He tastes like Christmas lights and his arms around her waist feel like they’re meant to be, as if they were made to stay wrapped around her midriff.

He tastes like a  _promise_.

She breathes deeply and pulls back, resting her forehead against his.

.

**January 2017**

“It will be happy indeed,” she smiles widely down at the large baby bump and cries silently as Liam kisses her temple and spreads his palms on her tummy like wings, his warmth   
becoming hers as he moulds himself to her back, looking at the chaos that’s ensued in their living room.

Surrounded by family and friends, Cheryl simply  _laughs_.

.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	8. Chapter 8

_Woke up alone in this hotel room_   
_Played with myself, where were you?_

_._

**December 2015**

The morning after, she's gone.

Liam doesn't pretend to be surprised, just stretches back and raises his palm to the striped sun-rays coming in through the shutters of the dingy hotel room.

The burn of her lips feels heavy, like a stain on his skin, and as he stares at the creases in his hand, he wonders whether in the span of a night he made the biggest mistake of his entire career.

They've survived brawls, they've survived mic-failures and crazy fan attacks, and  _he's_ stood tall against onslaughts of degrading remarks, on his weight, on his face, on his beliefs.

At the sight of her tears, he fell instantly.

He phones Louis first, and as the eighth dial tone echoes in his ear, he decides that if fucking Cheryl Fernandez-Versini in a worse for wear bed when she's still, very much,  _married,_ doesn't hold the record for the dumbest decision he's ever made - calling Louis Tomlinson to get romantic advice at 9:08 a.m, certainly does.

" _What_?"

Louis's voice is groggy, obviously tired and overused from partying last night. Liam ignores the fact that,  _rationally,_ his voice should be as sleepy, but he's been awake for far too long for that to be a possibility.

The moment the mattress shifted as she got up, picked up her clothes, and the door shut back on its frame, his eyes opened.

To emptiness.

"I slept with Cheryl," he confesses, going for straightforward, but getting a bitter, sick,  _wrong,_ aftertaste on his tongue as he says the words.

There's a beat of silence, and then a long, drawn-out sigh, and Liam has spent enough of his life listening to that exact sound emitted from Louis that he pegs it in a split-second.

Disappointment.

" _So much for laying low_."

"I'm in a hotel," Liam reassures, his arm reaching around in the cotton sheets for a hint of  _Cheryl_ ; for some foolish, unjustified reason, he thought she might've stayed, he pictured her leaning over and kissing him languidly, with eyes soft as caramel and hands smooth and attentive.

" _Sweet, that just fixes everything_."

"Louis," he sighs, "she's gone."

" _So_?" Louis's voice comes through a little distorted. " _What'd you expect mate? That she'd be there, ready for another ride? She's fucking married, Liam."_

"You don't sound too surprised." Liam mutters, wondering if he's that transparent. He sits up, digging his fingers through his hair in a heap of frustration, desperation, and an unmistakable sense of self-pity. "And- They're... They're over."

_"Come again?"_

"They're over, Lou, he's not even living at her place anymore."

" _Fucking..._ _"_ there's rustling and then Louis hisses, " _how long?"_

Liam rubs his eyes, so painfully aware of his lack of self-control now that Louis digs at him relentlessly.

"For a while now," he mumbles, staring at the cracks on the wall a few feet away. "They've been having problems since November."

(He doesn't specify the year, because despite everything, he  _knows_ the shitstorm dawned on them long before  _now,_ quite frankly within months of their marriage, has a phone full of texts to prove it and a collection of Cheryl's sad frowns tucked away in his memory to go with it.)

 _"No,"_ Louis groans, clearly annoyed, " _how long have_ you  _known for?"_

Liam closes his eyes, and rips at his fingernails with his teeth, thinking of late night phonecalls and drunken conversations, confessions, fights and award ceremonies, Cheryl's voice booming through his headset, and then her moans by the shell of his ear, her hair, her eyes and her dimpled smile, the sadness washed away even for only a second when she threw her head back and screamed his name yesterday.

He sits with his phone pressed to his ear and ponders what's the best way to tell Louis that somehow, he's  _always_ known.

(But that's not the question Louis asked.)

"From the start." Liam furrows his eyebrow at the silence that follows, feeling somehow the need to explain further,  _escape_ this madness he got caught in. "She tells me things, we're friends."

Louis sighs again, and Liam imagines his long thin fingers combing through his unkempt hair, his throat sore from yesterday and his head in pain from trying to piece everything together.

He at least has the sense not to laugh.

" _Friends don't fuck each other, Liam. You, me, Harry and Niall._ We  _are friends. Not you and fucking - I mean_ ,  _it's_  Cheryl _, man. What the hell were you thinking?"_

He wasn't thinking,  _clearly._ He was drunk, she was drunk, and suddenly all thoughts were thrown out of the window. She was crying and lonely and -

Oh  _God,_ did he take advantage of her?

Is this what it was? Did he use her?

"I-" Liam, finds it hard to breathe, almost like the air is suffocating and he notices it is now raining outside. "She was crying, and- she left last night you know? So I followed and that... that piece of - he texted her yeah? Sent her some sarcastic shit and she was so fucking  _sad_ Lou and I couldn't- I was drunk and angry and he doesn't _deserve_ her yano? He never fucking did-"

_"Liam, for_ _fuck's_ _sake, are you in love with Chez?"_

He almost feels the need to cry.

"I think I might be." He whispers, letting the words sink in for the both of them.

.

**November 2015**

He should have known it would be a terrible,  _terrible_ idea to come in and pretend like the mere image of her doesn't make him want to spontaneously combust.

All he does as of late is pretend.

Pretend he's happy, pretend the smile on his face is genuine and not a result of a dozen something members of his management team forcing him to raise the peaks of his mouth, with a condescending " _give us a smile, Liam._ "

But that's fine. He's been lonely lately, an empty house with only Watson for proof that he is still alive. He's been feeling like a ghost, as if he's walking the tiled floor in his house but not really, eating but not tasting, speaking on the phone almost aimlessly.

He doesn't have Sophia, not for a while now, and he doesn't have Cheryl.

He  _never_ had Cheryl.

"Hey, man," Bollie laughs as he pushes at Liam's shoulder, looking ecstatic for no reason in a carpeted corridor with crew members frantically rushing around, headsets on their heads, food in their hands and cheques to earn.

He wishes he had that. He can't remember the last time he smiled for no reason whatsoever, but it certainly must have been long ago.

 _Too_ long.

"Hey," he smiles back, plastic, and fake, as needed. "How are you guys?"

"Amazing!" Reggie exclaims, hands rubbing together, and Liam's eyes fall on the expensive watch settled on his wrist, knowing for a fact that Cheryl bought it for him last month. As if Liam needs another reason to like that woman.

"Look, we gotta run, but we're so glad you came, honestly Liam," before he processes it, he's already been engulfed in their arms, a camera lense staring back at him, and their million-dollar smiles so bright that he is sure his own, miniscule lift of a lip will cause mayhem in the 1D fanbase, will be branded pathetic and so obviously  _forced._

(It is.)

"Liam," her voice sounds a second later, and he turns, hesitantly, able to collect his thoughts enough to look at her without crumbling.

"Hey," he says.

She smiles, slightly, dimples stretching on her skin as her palms pat the fabric of her skirt down. "You came," she looks surprised.

In all honesty, he's surprised himself. But he knows it'll make for good TV, and he also knows he's nothing short of a masochist. He wants to be here because of the inevitable tension between them, he wants to stare at her and convince himself either that she really doesn't give a shit about his fast-growing feelings or that she  _does_ give a shit, and thus, is a fucking liar.

(He doesn't know which would be worse.)

No matter the scenario, he'll walk out of here tonight with his dignity intact, he's decided.

"I did." He states, simply, because there is nothing to say. Then he smiles,  _again,_ because it's been drilled into him nowadays and it's plainly the smart thing to do. There are cameras everywhere and the last thing he needs is tabloids catching onto him and his desperate,  _failed,_  love life.

Cheryl, on the other hand, has already caught on, and he can tell from the frown between her eyebrows, her eyes that scream concern and her hand that's twitching by her side.

"Liam-"

"How's Jean?" It's a low blow.

So low that Cheryl withdraws completely, recoiling almost instantly, her once sympathetic eyes now hard, and condemning. She's  _hurt_.

 _Join the fucking club,_ he thinks, almost ready to spit it out, when Simon appears out of thin air with Paddy beside him.

Liam turns around as a young looking boy with a scruffy beard on his jaw and a mic on his hand places a hand on his shoulder and prompts him to move, the others right behind him, and he feels suffocated, barely walking.

_Ghost._

She's hot on his heels and he knows, can hear her breaths as they come out short and intense as she tries to rush on those damn shoes.

Is this what they've come to?

Venomous conversations that end up sticking to his mind like toxic, fingertips raw from boxing too much lately and legs buckling under the weight of her gaze? Unspoken things that somehow they talk about without identifying them, without admitting them.

Lies.

So many lies.

But it's his fault. He refuses to believe anything else. And the fact that it's his fault, makes him even angrier. She has a husband. A fucking asshole, but a husband nonetheless.

Even the thought of him makes him curl his lip in disdain.

At the end of the corridor, right there, slightly visible to the audience's eye as they start screaming and he's ready to be led to his seat, she finally grips his arm and he sighs as he turns, already looking forward to the end of this.

She's staring  _through_ him, her emotions so clear and open for him to see that it shocks him, pins him to the spot, and he's suddenly scared that whoever can see them standing by the door will recognize the space between them before even  _he_  does.

This space, wet from humidity and slick with unsaid words, her hand on his arm and her wide brown eyes smothering him.

When Paddy pushes forward and drags him along with a palm on the small of his back, he's struggling to breathe.

Later, she asks him about his opinion on national television and he pretends once more to be happy, if only to show his appreciation for Reggie&Bollie.

(Later, she comes after him and he smiles, because he realizes, sadly, she's a fucking liar.

Later, he answers her question, holds her, lets her go, and breaks down in the car angrily, frustrated at himself.

She's a fucking liar and he should've fucking  _known_.)

.

**July 2016**

"I'm pregnant."

What? No he's, he's -

"What?"

Cheryl trembles, as do his hands as he tries to hold the weight of the shopping bags that has suddenly seemed to have multiplied by a hundred as her words sink in, crawling underneath his skin, seeping through his brain, settling in his heart.

"What?" He breathes again, still, unmoving, scared, terrified, in love with her eyes and her mouth and her hands and her tiny figure all again.

"I'm-" crying. She's crying. Looking small in her pyjamas and so innocent. Young, younger than him, and he falls, falls,  _falls._ "Liam, I'm pregnant."

Almost instinctively, his eyes flicker down to her stomach, where her hands are crossed protectively, hidden in the warmth of her sleeves.

Pregnant. Bump. Cheryl. Liam. Baby. Birth. Mom. " _Dad_." He suddenly states. Still looking at the stomach with his brain displaying a row of random, yet related words like film in front of his eyes.

He looks up, finally, into her eyes, her huge, stunning, brown eyes, that their  _baby_ will inherit.

"I'm gonna be a dad!" He laughs out, like a schoolboy, Cheryl's apparent confusion only fuelling his sudden happiness. The eggs crack but he ignores them as he drops the bags and walks to her, cupping her face, wiping her tears. "Why are you crying babe? We're having a family."

"Are we- are  _you_ ready, for something like that? A family, Liam. A child. It's early, maybe it's too fucking  _early._ "

He thinks back to Christmas of 2009, his last ever normal Christmas, to his dad starting the prayers around the table and himself groaning at the need to bring religion into everything. His sisters are bickering over who's gonna get the first slice and his mom is running her thumb on the back of his dad's hand. His cousins have already tucked in, and a black Silverado horns outside.

Later, his dad tells him he's proud, of the man he's becoming everyday, of the man he is. Proud of the boy that cuts paperbacks and makes collages, the boy that blasts Justin Timberlake and Usher on his mp3 but manages to watch reruns of  _Mamma Mia_  with Karen at the crack of dawn just to see her face light up when he cuddles her on the couch. A teenager with a poster of Cheryl Cole underneath his bed, folded neatly like a prized possession, a woman he'd seen with his own eyes, a woman he'd winked out and a woman who kissed him on the cheek the summer of 2008 when he was leaving for judge's houses with a  _good luck,_ and a smile.

He remembers cursing at Ashley fucking Cole and his inability to keep it in his pants, cussing and thinking, for the first time  _ever_  in his life,  _if I had a woman like that by my side, I would never hurt her._

He remembers himself as a boy, he remembers Cheryl, beautiful, gleaming Cheryl, and her nephews in her arms as a documentary played on TV that Christmas day.

He remembers his dad teaching him how to kick a ball.

"No," he whispers. "I'm not. But I will be. I was always meant to be. I will be,  _Chez._ We both will."

.

**October 2015**

"I can't pretend anymore," is the first thing he says after a while, as they sit side by side at a bar in the middle of nowhere, where the bartender is too exhausted and money-oriented to care about two popstars currently drinking his scotch.

They've been here for hours, talking endlessly, a conversation that seems like  _the sequel_ to their phonecall a few weeks ago.

He's been waiting for this moment, building up strength, maybe since forever.

He wants to forget the world, their fame, her husband, his ex, for just a second, a minute, an hour, maybe, if it means he'll finally get to talk about those  _feelings,_ this thing between them that has been growing steadily ever since last year, and they've both ignored it, let it collect dust on the sides whilst they got on with their lives.

He wants her.

He wants her, and it took him zero moments to realize from the second he called her that day, before Sophia had officially ended it.

He wants Cheryl. All of her.

She has a cigarette in her mouth, looking at him slightly before letting out a puff of smoke, her other hand on the crystal glass in front of her.

"You're drunk," she mutters, looking away.

"No." He refuses to cast this away, brush it off as if he didn't just spill his heart out to her in four words. Sophia moved out yesterday, and here he is, laying it all on the table along with his heart and his pride. "No, I'm not, and we both know it."

Sophia's relationship with him was almost defining. Their lives were so merged together that he felt almost empty as she made up her mind, halving their tight, happy bubble so neatly that he knew she'd planned it long before she tucked her feet underneath her on their couch -  _his_ couch, and with a voice so soft, spilling between them, said the words he was dreading to hear ;  _it's_ over.

 _Over is such an overrated word_ , he thought then. Old and tired. Nothing is over. It's maybe ending, maybe evolving and maybe changing and maybe a million other fucking adjectives but it's not over.

 _Over_  is just a poor replacement for shit too big to put into words.

(Maybe he  _is_ drunk.)

Cheryl, with her smart eyes and her lithe hands, laughs, shallow, and shakes her head. "Don't," she says. "You're angry. Disappointed.  _Alone_. Don't bring me into this, Payne."

"I already have, though," he says, annoyed, leaving his drink and twisting on his barstool until all he can see is Cheryl's short hair hiding her face and her designer clothes, so stark and foreign against the wooden, old bar.

She's wearing her ring and he noticed the minute he stepped foot inside, half-expected her to take it off after their chat on the phone, when she was in Rome, and she admitted that maybe, possibly, she was on the verge of a mental breakdown.

"It's complicated," she whispers then, when she turns and catches him staring at the ring on her finger like it might come off and magically disappear if only he wishes for it hard enough. He scoffs.

 _Complicated._ Another one of those words you'd never find in a book. A word so overused, and tired that no writer ever types it anymore.

A word so fake, so  _pretentious._

(He's so tired of pretending.)

"Don't lie," he rasps then. Looks away. "Don't fucking lie Chez, not you too."

There's a glass banging on the counter and he hears it in her voice. The pain.

"Lie?" He looks up, unable to speak. Her eyes are shining. "You think I'm  _lying,_ Liam? You're not fucking married, are ya? You wouldn't know. I love him. He's me husband. Sometimes he does a shit job at it, and sometimes  _I_ fuck up. What is it that you want us to say? You want me to tell you I'm leaving him? You want me to tell you I'm- I'm sad? I am. I fuckin' am. But this ain't no fairytale, you haven't been Cheryl fucking  _Cole_ , Liam. You don't know shit about us."

"I do, I-"

" _No,_ " she shakes her head, rubbing at a tear track frantically and he feels lost. "No you don't. I love him, I love me husband. He loves me. But sometimes, shit happen. Please don't ask me to. Don't ask me Liam, don't,  _don't_  ask me. Please stop. I don't want to hear it. I don't _want_ to. There's nothing to answer with so  _please-_ "

"But I wanna say it," he whispers, finally finding the strength to speak. "You and I, Chez, there's something to say. You know it. Stop fucking pretending for a second just stop-  _look_ at me- _"_

She's livid, cigarette put away and her face filled with tears. She gets up, her hands tugging spasmodically at her clothes and he's shaking his head, getting up as she does and towering over her, not ready to let this go. Not ready to say goodbye and lose another person in his life.

He gets up, but it's too late.

"No I can't, I'm  _sorry,_ I'm sorry, about Sophia- I... I need space, I need to go."

She leaves him there, standing, doing nothing, all alone, once again, with feelings seeping out of him and words left unspoken, so many, that he suddenly can't breathe.

.

**June 2015**

"Happy birthday, little Geordie."

" _D'you_ _just call us little?"_

"Maybe," he laughs. "How are you?"

" _Fine. Good I guess. It's a bit wild over here at the moment."_

"All good, I hope."

" _Mhm_ _,_ " she hums. " _I'm in Italy."_

"You are?"

" _Jean planned it."_ She giggles, sounding happy and in a bizarre way, it makes him smile, but his heart twists.

"Romantic," he observes.

" _You?"_ She asks. " _How're the children?"_

"Good," he smiles fondly. "We're in London for a day before we got to pack for the US."

" _Ah,"_ she exclaims. " _Gotta love the tour life."_

"Is that sarcasm I detect?"

 _"Maybe,"_ she replies, laughing at something that isn't him as another voice spills out and he can tell it's her husband by the french accent. " _Listen, babe, I have to go, but thank you for calling. I saw the_ _pressie_ _by the way. I love it. Bye_ _Payno_ _, stay safe!"_

"Bye Chez, stay happy," he mumbles to himself as she's already gone.

Like a passing ship in the night.

Well, at least she liked the present. It's not everyday he records himself sing Happy Birthday in a  _Woody_ costume and balloons in his hands.

.

**March 2016**

"What is it this time?" He asks, wiping her tears off.

"Grandma," she says. "Nothing new."

Okay. He can handle that.

He gives her a kiss, muttering something about fixing her a cuppa and watching a movie as he eases the laptop of her hands and walks away.

It was never going to be easy.

.

**December 2013**

" _I wanna work with you, kid_ ," she says, laughing.

"Maybe," he whispers, blushing as Niall looks at him strangely and remembering all the time he had these sort of conversations with her in his bedroom, late at night, as a child, when she was only a piece of paper ripped off one of them monthly magazine issues. "Calling to check up on us?"

" _I_ was  _your mentor after all,"_ she laughs again, and he knows it's stupid, childish, but he laughs too and scratches at his head, feeling shy for no reason. Cheryl remembers them.

She remembers  _him._

"I have a song for you." The words escape even as he taped them carefully under his tongue, even after he swore to himself he wouldn't compromise himself.

He smacks his head on his forehead, and wonders, how at 20 years-old, he's still so stupid and careless, and unable to keep himself together when it's most needed.

(He can be the dad of the group through thick and thin, and at the sound of Cheryl Cole's laugh, apparently, his brain goes fuck-all.)

" _Yeah?"_ She asks softly, carefully, almost as if she knows those words were never meant to be spoken, as if she knows he has a crush on her, like every other man in the nation. " _I'd love to give it a listen, babe._ _Merry Christmas, Payne. I'll see you. Kiss the boys for us."_

"Marry Christmas," he says. The line closes.

 _It's okay_ , he thinks.  _It's just a song_. Not a love song, not by a long shot, but one that she can sing. One that was written about her. He rushes to open his notes, looking at the title ;  _I won't break._

That's fine.

Maybe it'll be a turning page for him.

Either way, he's excited beyond words.

.

**December 2016**

"So?" He asks, in a lapse of self-control and a moment of weakness, even though he promised himself he'd sit on this stool and not address the elephant in the room until she did.

There's a grocery list pinned to the fridge with a frog-shaped magnet. He bought it for her in LA, in a desperate attempt to cheer her up after the paparazzi swarmed them on the way to their car outside of the airport. She hates them. He knows, remembers the thinning of her lips, the hand buried in her slick, curled hair and the slightly too big sunglasses perched on her nose come rain or shine.

At first, being with Cheryl was almost like he was always teetering on the edge of something  _wrong,_ something  _forbidden._ He was getting tired of it, but in a weird way, he could never get tired of  _her._ In a strange, story-worthy, cliché, Nicholas Sparks  _The Notebook_ manner, he couldn't stare at her and then not add the word  _love_ in the sentences he tried to string together.

He focuses on the frog and decides that if this conversation heads sideways, he'll use the store as an excuse to blow off some steam. He'll walk the distance, probably kick some stones on the way, maybe purposely neglect to buy a few things on the list she scrambled together yesterday just because he knows it'll annoy her, and it might give him momentary pleasure.

"Nothing." He snaps back to the now, to reality, tracing a random pattern on the counter in front of him as he throws a glance at her.

_Stay calm._

"Nothing?"

She sighs, her hip jutting out to meet the stove as she leans on it, hands curled around a mug. "I told him not to call again."

Liam finally looks at her properly. She has her hair in a bun and her nails are done to perfection, the bump clearly visible from underneath the oversized sweater she's wearing. She doesn't look different in comparison to how she was before the call, maybe a bit more worn out, but nothing significant.

And yet he stares, steeling himself for the smallest amount of shift, a sign, no matter how subtle, that something might have changed almost imperceptibly between them between the call and Liam fixing himself two turkey sandwiches.

"He shouldn't have called at all," he says.

"I know," she thumbs at a wrinkle on her sleeve, looking down minutely. "He- He wasn't a bad husband, you know." She states after a second.

Liam watches her face, scrunch together, the set of her shoulders as she tries to come up with words for something that he  _doesn't_ want to hear.

"Just... just not right for us, I guess." She finishes then, with a shrug.

Liam looks away then, back at the frog, already making mental notes of what he won't buy. Strawberries, perhaps. She likes them pancakes, with extra syrup, stacked on top of each other. He knows because he's the one that introduced them to her. After the Brits, months ago, when he sprayed whipped cream all over them and drew random emojis on it whilst singing to  _Maniac,_ the radio paying a tribute to the 80's.

"I loved him," she adds.

Did he? Strawberries are her favourite and yet that man she married never cared to cook her a dessert with them.

 _Childish,_ maybe, but he's struggling not to get up and leave.

Did he?

"Yeah," he whispers, low, much later, when the silence between then stretches endlessly, even worse than her words. "Yeah, I know," he mutters, looking down.

There's a small sigh again, and he hears steps seconds before she's in front of him, but he doesn't look at her, he doesn't look at their unborn child, but at the mug sitting abandoned on the counter she walked away from. There's smoke outside the window, far away, and the trees are thrown around as the wind blows.

"Baby," she touches the top of his hand, softly, warmly. "I loved him. I still do, Liam. I love Jean, and  _heck_ , I love Ashley. They were me turning pages. I can't just forget about them."

"So what am I then?" He states finally, his voice coming out croaked, and they both seem surprised at it. "Another turning page."

Cheryl's eyes are watering, and she sucks in her cheeks as she walks around the barrier between them to place a hand on his cheek. He feels like a child, ready to be placated, and he thinks,  _maybe I am._

Maybe he's sitting there, selfishly, waiting for her to bridge the gap between them with her smart words, her eyes, her kisses, like all those times before. He doesn't know how to, he never did.

He depends on her, greedily, openly seeking out her comfort even when she's the one he's running away from.

He stares at her intensely.

"You're me last page, Liam. You're not another turning page because there's nothing to turn to, baby. There's nothing  _after_  you, no one," she whispers, in his mouth. "Just you, and me, and this little bean."

He kisses her, and thinks,  _that's more than good enough._

.


	9. Chapter 9

_You are mine, I am yours,_   
_Let's not fuck around._

.

"Why am I always the last to know anything?"

Cheryl sighs, exasperated, staring at the mess Nicola made on the carpet.

"Because when you do," Cheryl begins, leaning down to pick up Bear who was already crawling towards the puddle of coffee, " _this_ happens."

Bear is giggling and seemingly, her words go unheard.

"Aw," Nicola coos, reaching out to poke him at his belly, "he's like a mini Payno, bless him."

Cheryl smiles fondly, and glances at her son. He  _does_ look a lot like Liam. In fact, the little crinkles by his eyes when he laughs are right there. It helps, especially when Liam is away.

(She has his mini clone attached to her hip at all times, it's quite fascinating.)

 _But_ , there are more pressing matters to attend.

"Well, mini Payno has to take a little bath, and auntie  _Nicola_ , here, has to scrub the carpet."

"What-"

"Come on, Bear, let's go get the water running-"

"Um, excuse me-"

"So that it's warm!  _Yes_ , baby! Who's me little prince?" Cheryl coos all the way up to the stairs, sniggering as she listens to Nicola's groans and moans when she falls to her knees and starts cleaning.

_Worth it._

_._

"I don't hate you, you know," she confesses after the silence between them has settled like mist in the air. She doesn't know  _why_ she feels the need to say it. But it's warm out here, the sun blazing in Cannes and for some reason, right  _here,_ where she met him, she has to make amends. "Not  _now,_ at least."

Jean has a scotch buried between his fingers and his eyes are pinned to the horizon. He looks sceptical.

Maybe she's not the only one who's been torturing themselves over that failed marriage. Years have passed and she still can't find where it all went  _wrong._ She doesn't hate Jean because she can't find a reason to hate him.

And it bothers her.

"Is this the part where you tell me, we can be friends? Amis, non?" He asks, huffing a laugh and raising the glass to his lips. He looks older. Older, but happy.

His hair is curled back and the suit he's wearing cuts his form perfectly, a smart look on his face and a smug tone in his voice that Cheryl knows has always been there.

She shakes her head, thumbing at the fabric of Zuhair Murad's expensive velvet dress, and contemplating whether or not she chose the right heels.

"Nah," she looks up at him to find his eyes already on hers for the first time since they've made themselves at home at the hotel's balcony. "We could never," she admits to him, and to herself.

Seeing Jean only leaves her  _numb_. They were never to meant to last, were they?

Jean's phone is ringing and she knows their time is running up. But for whatever reason, and with a sigh on his tongue, Jean leaves it ringing, the tone filling the space between them and bringing a smile to Cheryl's eyes.

He spots it and he laughs, his head thrown back. He could always tell when she was happy. He remembers all her smiles and recognizes each look in her eyes, Cheryl  _knows._

When it dies down and all that's left is the sound of his ringtone and his eyes locked on hers, he smiles softly, the way he did when he said  _I do_ all that time ago.

"I hope he treats you good," he murmurs, the french accent distorting the words but not the heaviness they carry.

When her throat closes up and the words she was meant to say lodge at the bottom of it, she can't do anything but nod. She flashes her dimples and touches his hand, if only for a second.

Then, with a palm in his pocket and a cell phone balanced on his ear, he's gone.

.

" _Hello?"_

"Nadine?"

There's silence on the other end and Cheryl chews at her nails manically, staring at Liam through her glasses and frowning in panic.

This is a  _horrible_  idea.

God, Nadine might not even recognize her voice, she thinks. They haven't exchanged words in so  _fucking long._

Liam shakes his head and mouths at her to  _go on,_ as he hides himself behind his palms and plays peek-a-boo with Bear. His giggles echo around them and Cheryl desperately wishes she wasn't the one doing this.

With a huff, she scratches at her forehead and tries again, "Nadz?"

" _Is that a baby Aloud I hear at the back?"_ She asks and Cheryl almost cries from relief, Nadine's voice soft and Irish, just like she remembered it.

"Yes," she laughs, shaking her head, aching for the best friend she once had. "He's one  _loud_  boy, this one."

 _"It's no surprise, really,"_  Nadine laughs back, sounding happy, almost completely unfazed that this is their first time speaking to each other in a while.  _"How's Liam?"_

"He's good, we're..." She pauses, contemplating how to break the news, "Nadz, I-" she stops again, staring at Liam and the little dimple under his eye as he laughs at Bear's scrunched up face. "It's been a while, hasn't it?" She finally mumbles, opting for another route.

Nadine sighs, and Cheryl remembers her face crumbling when Girls Aloud were no longer a thing, her eyes as she shook her head no at the idea of an after-party and that is the last image she has of her. She shakes her head sadly.

" _Too long."_ Nadine admits.

Cheryl looks away, away from her family and outside the window. "Do you ever miss it?" She asks. "What we all had? Do you ever wish you could go back?"

" _Do you?"_

Cheryl throws a glance at Liam and her eyes soften, his hands cradling Bear on his chest and his lips curled into a smile.

She closes her eyes and imagines not having that.

"We've gotten old, haven't we?"

Nadine bursts into laughter in her ear and Cheryl laughs along, imagining her with her eyes closed and her cheeks pulled back in happiness, picturing a time where there hadn't been any rift between them, when their careers were interwoven and not two separate, completely different paths.

A time when Nadine grabbed Cheryl by the hand and dragged her to the dance floor and Cheryl had to tighten her grip on her waist and remind her that she was still very much a  _kid,_ a baby.

A happy time, maybe a time when they were free to be who they really were without having to be placed against each other in a pit of madness and media chaos.

When Nadine was her little sister and no matter how annoying, she would always take care of her.

" _No, we're still young and absolute love machines, honey."_

(She misses being young and free.)

"I missed your craziness, babe," Cheryl shakes her head in amusement. Then, she sighs. "I- I'd like to invite you, to something quite special, if you'd like, I mean-"

" _Oh my God!"_

And then - girly screams.

.

"Oh my God!" Lily screams.

Cheryl is smiling widely, with a hand still holding onto Lily's mug tightly, outstretched over the marble counter.

Lily is looking at it with eyes gleaming, her palms covering her mouth in shock and eyebrows shot to her hairline.

"Oh my God," she says again, this time whispering the words. "Cheryl."

And in this moment, Cheryl lowers the mug and blinks rapidly, water blurring her vision and drops on her skin. She's still smiling.

Lily has been there since day one. She was at the altar, she was at the lawyer's office, she was at her tour, she was at Mystique, she was at the decree-nisi, she was at the X-Factor Final, she was there at Bear's birth.

Everywhere.

She's seen all of Cheryl's mistakes and knows all of her missteps.

So when Lily gets up, slowly, and takes her into her arms for a warm embrace, Cheryl cries in relief, safe in the knowledge that  _now_ is not another one of them.

.

"Kimba," Cheryl buries her nose underneath the shell of Kimberley's ear and nuzzles there, at the warmth of her neck and the tickle of her baby hair. "Will you be my, my... me-"

"Yes." She states, the staccato in her voice nestling itself in Cheryl's heart, like it has done a million times before, during a million different situations. "Of course I will," she sighs, turning her head and forcing Cheryl to come out of her safe haven.

"This is the last time. No more," Cheryl blinks her tears away and gives a shaky smile, watery at the edges and blinding in its beauty. "I love him, Kimberley. I love him so much."

Her eyes lower to Kimberley's mouth and the way it stretches to a content grin, her hand resting on Cheryl's cheek and her eyes piercing in their intensity.

In Kimberley, Cheryl sees everything she'd like to have  _become_. The grey in her eyes reminds Cheryl of late nights in front of a crappy TV, with half-eaten pizza scattered on the glass table in front of them and Kimberley's warm, clammy hands buried underneath Cheryl's slightly too big sweaters, settling on her stomach as she moulded herself to Cheryl's needs.

Even then, Cheryl was so small and tiny and vulnerable that Kimberley could press her in and out and sideways and fold her in fourths and eighths and tuck her in her side, by her hip, where Cheryl was the safest she could ever be. With her lips and her hot breath by Cheryl's ear, whispering  _goodnight_ even when the nights were terrible, lonely and heartbreaking.

She doesn't want to glorify the days they were no one and nothing, because they definitely weren't easy. They weren't an adventure that filmmakers write scripts about. Her life was long hours at the studio with the girls, it was index fingers buried at their throats on top of a toilet bowl, it was alcohol when it shouldn't have been, drug-addicts that she barely managed to keep herself away from.

Bills, surviving and random gigs at GAY.

But somehow, it was perfect.

Somehow, leftover Chinese takeaway while seated at Kimberley's lap, laughing at something half-hour Harding spat out from across the table, was perfect in a completely different manner than Liam and his timid smiles and his gentle lips and the greatest gift he could have offered her.

Somehow, Cheryl's life, for all the pain it has involved, has managed to give her the happiest memories ever.

"I know you do," she murmurs. "He does too."

And she's learned to read between the lines, she's learned to read Kimberley's eyes like the back of her hand.

( _I love you_ , she'd said once, a lifetime ago, when Cheryl was drowning at her couch in pain and sadness, a newspaper in front of her with Ashley's name slapped on the front page in big, block-like letters.

She'd kissed her forehead and her eyes and her nose and whispered,  _you're not alone._ )

Cheryl curls her fingers on Kimberley's cotton shirt and reaches up to kiss her on the tip of her nose. "You're me favourite person in the world, Kimba," she whispers. " _Forever_."

And she doesn't need to explain. She doesn't need to say anything.

The love she has for Kimberley is the one thing she would never have to apologize for.

.

"Well, well, well," Simon laughs, slapping his hands together with a cockiness on the curl of his thin lips that Cheryl has learned to accept but hate. "I'd say I'm surprised but, as we all know, I'm not easily surprised-"

"Yeh, yeh, shut up will ya? You're doing me head in, already. Keep up with that and you're not invited anywhere." She states, flicking her hair back and rolling her eyes.

Out of everyone she's decided to tell, she regrets this one the  _most_.

"Ah, sweetheart," Simon coos, pinching her cheek and she rolls her eyes again although a ghost of a smile appears on her lips. "You would never. Plus, Liam loves me."

She raises an eyebrow and stares at him.

"What?" He shrugs, digging his fork into his steak with passion. "It's true."

She shakes her head and sighs, twirling the pasta around, and shoving them in her mouth. For the sake of her relationship with Liam, she'll have to tolerate him.

"He even suggested that I make a toast."

She  _chokes._

_._

"So."

"So." Cheryl replies. Looks at him from the corner of her eye, and quickly averts her gaze back to the fountain in front of them.

"You're..." Tre trails off, a cigarette hanging limply from the edge of his lips, ash on his leather jacket. "You're full of surprises, aren't you?" He laughs.

Cheryl grins, turning around to lean her back on the rail. She nudges at his shoulder. "Isn't that what I'm known for?"

With an incredulous gleam dripping from his eyes, Tre raises an eyebrow and removes the fag from his mouth. His elbows are resting on the rail and his eyes are regarding her.

"Not to me, baby girl." He teases.

Cheryl throws her head back in laughter and tightens her grip on the rail.

In New Jersey, where Tre's family lives, he'd called her the same exact thing. They had a barbecue in their backyard, with the sun right above them and sweat clinging on their skin. Cheryl ended up terribly red at the shoulders that horrible summer's day, and Tre had kissed it better, with soft words spilled on her flesh,  _told you to wear sunscreen, baby girl,_ he'd murmured.

(That same day he was wearing a Lakers snapback and she remembers because it was the first thing she ripped off of him later in the evening, when they hid away in his childhood bedroom and Cheryl muffled her screams on his shoulder as he whispered dirty things in her ear.)

"Walter," she narrows her eyes. "Behave." She states and hits him playfully.

"No, I'm joking, I'm joking, I swear!" He laughs, raising his hands in defeat.

Silence settles between them and Cheryl closes her eyes, relishing the comfort. Tre is the one relationship she's never had any regrets about. Tre is the man she would have still been with had the circumstances worked out a bit differently.

Tre is the only man she left with happy tears brimming in her eyes, and not heartbreak.

It's nice to know that he never changed. He's still the black boy from New Jersey, with dreams of becoming the next big dancer and the words of a typical American. His smile still splits his face and his Geordie impression still sucks.

She's missed him.

"I'm happy for you," he says suddenly. "It's about damn time someone good came along." He scoffs, releasing smoke in the air.

"So you don't believe this is a mistake, then?" She asks, reluctantly, because this is what she's been wanting to ask all night, and really, it all boils down to  _this_.

"Does it feel like one?"

"No," she confesses in a whisper. She sighs and turns her head to him. "It never does, though," her finger toys with the ring on her hand. "And look where that got me."

"I am."

She frowns in confusion.

" _Looking_ ," he clarifies. "I  _am_ looking. And what I see is a beautiful woman, with a beautiful family and a bright future. All right there, in front of her." He flicks the cigarette away and turns to face her, standing upright. "So stop chickening out, and be the Chez I know and love. The Chez that took risks like a damn idiot, but then proved  _everyone_  wrong."

Silence.

"Got it?"

Cheryl nods, speechless.

"Got it," she says, swallowing hard, remaining still as he grins goofily, laying a kiss on her forehead, and walks away, into the bright Las Vegas night.

.

 _"Ahem,"_ a deep voice sounds, and Cheryl chuckles, wrapping the sheet tighter around herself and throwing a cursory glance back at the king-sized bed to make sure Liam is still out like a candle.  _"Rumour has it, that my favourite Brit is in the city of fucking sin. Why the hell haven't I gotten a phone-call?!"_

Cheryl smiles warmly and stares at the view under her balcony. "Katy," she starts, biting her lip in amusement, "hello to you too."

The lights underneath swim in waves over the darkness, cars whizzing past and the echoes of music further away from here ringing in her ears.

Las Vegas truly is a sight for sore eyes.

 _"You bitch!"_ Katy shouts, her voice getting lost in bass and electric guitar and Cheryl is sure she's in a club somewhere, getting unnecessarily drunk with her friends.  _"How long has it been, girl?"_

"Very," she admits.

The last time she saw Katy and properly chatted with her was at a private party in London after the Graham Norton show, and a  _lot_ has changed since then. Katy seems like a girl to have fun with, especially considering the fact that she snogged Cheryl within five minutes of their time at the club that night, with no qualms about the fact that Tre was right there.

She is simply put,  _nuts_.

 _"Is_ _loverboy_ _there as well?"_ Katy asks, and Cheryl scrunches her face up, wondering if Katy has been following the media at all. Would she have to sit and recount everything that happened?

_Oh God._

"Katy, I'm... do you know who -"

 _"Of course I do you idiot!"_ She shouts over the music, and Cheryl winces away from the loudness.  _"How's mum life treating you?"_

"Good," Cheryl sighs, content, picking at the threads of her sheet.

Every time someone mentions Bear to her her heart swoons and she's just  _that_ much closer to boarding the first flight back home. She misses her little prince, horribly, but she knows that with Lily, Kimberley and both their entire families on the ready, her son is in good hands.

(She's not so sure about Nicola and her crazy antics, though.)

She hears a groan from inside the hotel room and she snaps out of her Bear-infused daze, laughing, lowly. "It's late, Katy, and some of us like our sleep."

 _"Liar,"_ Katy teases, and Cheryl can picture her smirk from afar,  _"you were probably going at it like rabbits the minute I called you-"_

"Katy!" Cheryl hisses, although amused. "Shut up." She laughs.

_"You didn't deny it-"_

"I'll hang up-"

_"Don't you dare-"_

"Is there something you needed?!" Cheryl shouts, laughing, free to be loud as the balcony door opens and a second later she feels Liam's breath hot on her neck.

Katy laughs on the other end, her voice distorted.  _"I heard some rumours,_ _y'know_ _, perks of the label and all."_

Cheryl sighs, leaning her head back on Liam's shoulder and lavishing in the softness of his lips. "Lost art of keeping secrets, I bet."

_"So it's true?!"_

Cheryl turns the phone away as she bites her tongue and moans, Liam's hands reaching for her modesty.

"M-Maybe," she breathes, and at the feel of Liam's tongue on her neck, rushes, "look babe, it was nice talking to you, but I gotta go-"

 _"Yeah, yeah, enjoy your_ sleep  _sugar face. Just so you know, my lips are sealed, and, congratulations sweetheart."_

There's no stopping Liam and she doesn't process what Katy says at all, she just presses  _end call,_ and turns around in lust.

.

"Harding," Cheryl says, nervous but determined to do this anyway. She'll do this right.

"Yes?"

Cheryl ignores the rest of the girls turning to stare at her and she sighs. Looking only at Sarah.

They made amends two months ago, after Sarah admitted that she distanced herself for a reason and Cheryl apologized for ever offending her, if she did.

But somehow, and with the memory of Sarah being the first one to tell her,  _I don't think he's good for you, Chez,_ back in 2005, when Cheryl announced Ashley was the one, she finds the idea of telling Sarah anything,  _terrifying._

Sarah introduced her to lesbian porn. She barged in one day, vodka in one hand, and DVDs in the other, announcing that she was going to crush on the couch for the night and there was nothing Cheryl could do about it. She was loud, annoying, and fucking whimsical, broke a vase in an attempt to find the DVD player and soon, she was grabbing Cheryl by the shoulder carelessly and forcing her to  _sit the fuck down and watch porn. It's lesbian, it's fabulous, and it's better than Ashley's porkie-pinky-_ _penini_ _. Trust me, babe, you'll be over it in no time._

And despite Cheryl's frustration, despite her sadness and the tissues thrown around in tiny balls all over the living room, that night in 2008, she sat down, and laughed for the first time in months, watching Sarah drink the liquor and fake ridiculous orgasms in sync with the films.

Sarah knew best. Sarah told her not to.  _Don't take him back,_ she said.

She was right.

It doesn't matter. Now, she's promised herself, (and Liam, and Kimba, and Lily, and Bear, even though he was too absorbed in playing with Parker to understand) that she would do this.

So, in for a penny, in for a pound.

"Sarah," she says again, buying time.

"Cheryl," Sarah replies, looks between her and the girls almost comically.

Silence.

With a groan, she raises her right hand, and closes her eyes, scared of the reaction.

After a while, there's still no response.

"Chez," she hears then, opens her eyes to find Sarah smiling widely. "About fucking time."

.

"I can't believe this-"

_"What, she's my bestie, of course she'd fucking tell me-"_

"Oh God, how many besties does she have-"

_"Just me, I swear. Honey, that boy did fucking good if I do say so myself-"_

"Ri!"

_"What? It's true! Cheryl, I don't know if you recall, but we had something special you and I-"_

"Are ya having a bubble bath? We hadn't even met-"

 _"Baby,"_ Rihanna purrs,  _"I could have arranged that."_

Cheryl howls in laughter, keeping an eye on Bear and Watson on the floor. "You're both mental you two, I'm telling you's."

_"We'll see about that when we're in the studio lady, you can't get rid of me that easily and a collab is long overdue."_

"Sure, RiRi, whenever you want," Cheryl nods to herself, carefully applying the last coat of nail polish on her big toe. At the sound of Bear hiccuping, she chuckles, straightening up. "I gotta go babe, but thanks for calling, even though Katy promised she'd keep her mouth shut. I really appreciate it-"

_"Don't go all soft on me now. Plus, I love_ _Payno_ _, he's my boy ever since our little song. Congrats sweetie, and bye now, my hot lover is waiting for my pus-"_

"Goodbye!" She screeches, hanging up, quickly, and then loses it as both Watson and Bear sit up simultaneously, hiccups gone at the sound of her scream.

When Liam rushes in a minute later, soap in his hair and water dripping everywhere, having half-finished his shower, he's greeted by the sight of Cheryl rolling on the floor in hysterics, red nail polish staining the tiles, Bear giggling at her face and Watson staring back at him hopelessly.

.

"I can't believe this is happening," Harry has a jacket draped over him and three rings on each hand, his jeans tight and Hawaiian shirt buttoned down. He's gazing towards the see with somber eyes and Cheryl, weirdly enough, thinks he's the one that grew up the fastest of them all.

She huffs out a laugh and gingerly lies her upper body down on the cold, hard sand. "Neither did I," she mumbles, staring at the sky.

It's chilly, and Harry's fingers are playing with the stubble on his chin, his profile stark against the starry night.

He sighs, and turns to throw a glance at her, burying his left hand in his hair. "He's the happiest I've ever seen him, Cheryl."

"I know," she smiles.

"He loves you."

"I  _know._ "

Harry laughs and falls back as well, the two of them smiling at the darkness surrounding them.

"Lucky bastard," Harry mutters under his teeth a while later and Cheryl swats at him blindly.

_Still a kid inside._

.

"I don't like this."

"Well I do."

"He'll get so much stick-"

"If he feels sure about it-"

"He's  _not-_ "

"Will the both of you shut up! I'm right here!"

Cheryl lowers her eyes to the platter she'd prepared, full of turkey sandwiches and cheese crackers. "Me too." She states, looking up just in time to see all three of them jump at the sight of her standing in the doorway.

With a sigh, Cheryl strolls to the kitchen counter and sloppily dumps the food on it, crossing her arms with something akin to desperation waiting to break through the dams of her eyes.

She doesn't dare look at Liam.

"This is a bad idea then?" She asks, staring at Louis.

Louis is the one that got most involved in their romance, and he is the one out of the entirety of One Direction that she was most scared of.

"No," Liam and Niall say at the same time, looking on edge.

She ignores them, focusing on Louis, his hands buried in his pockets, the sigh escaping his lips.

"The fans aren't gonna like this, Chez." He states.

Cheryl swallows, glancing at Liam and his rigid posture, the anger shifting between his eyebrows, and the pursing of his lips.

"We didn't expect them too," she decides, walking over to Liam and holding his hand. "We don't need them too. This is about us." She looks at him.

He looks at her.

"Yeah," he whispers, softly, "just us."

.

"Ash," she whispers.

His face hasn't changed at all. His cheeks are hollowed in, like all those years ago, his eyes still warm and brown like chocolate. His mouth firm and his arms dusty, veins popping out against the blackness of his skin.

He looks so  _familiar_.

Her eyes are watering up already and he has a small, shy smile on his face, a carbon copy of the expression he wore when he first met her. Cheryl blinks and for a second she's back at that corridor, a Hoover at her feet and a handsome man she doesn't know staring at her full of intent.

If he comes any closer, then Cheryl can smell London, the first block they ever shared, when she had short hair and glitter on her eyes and baggie bottoms on, her face the picture of mischief.

On the silky shirt he wears, Cheryl sees an oily spot and images of restaurants flash to her mind. She remembers ironing his clothes before he went out, remembers trying to put her make-up on and failing, horribly, as his hands inched her dress upwards and reduced her to a quivering mess.

If she squints, she can see herself crying in happiness as he falls on one knee and asks her to make him the happiest man in the world.

Cheryl blinks and if she closes her lids hard enough, she's standing at the altar, looking at the love of her life and thinking she'd finally figured it all out.

 _If only she'd known_.

"Hey," he says. His voice is low but the accent is no longer there, and it phases her, for a reason that she can't quite grasp herself.  They've both grown up so  _much_.

So much and so differently, she can tell. He looks tired but  _alive_ , more alive than she'd ever seen him in the six years she spent cuddled in his arms.

He looks happy, peaceful, he looks like he found everything he didn't have when they were still together.

She's aware that she's crying.

She can feel the tears on her cheeks and taste the saltiness on her tongue, her hands trembling where she has them curled around the doorframe. Her heart beats out of her chest and she's suddenly regretting ever making this decision.

All the memories come rushing back and a feeling of dread sets on her shoulders, her brain slightly fuzzy at the reality of him.

"Chez," he mumbles after a while. After seconds, minutes, hours, and she's still standing at the door, her lips parched and her eyes red. "Please don't. Don't cry."

It's impossible. She stares at him and all she sees is her faults. Her whole,  _entire_  youth, in his hands, in the wrinkles by his eyes and the broad of his chest. She looks and all she can see is his body on hers, his body on another woman, the  _end._

"I can't," she breathes, raspy, broken, just like the last time she saw him.  _Six years ago._

She doesn't have to say more. He steps forward, and hesitantly, with a hint of a tear in his eye and tongue pushing at his cheek, he spreads his arms and holds her.

Her past is right there, on her doorstep, and for the first time in her life, Cheryl has no choice but to  _face_  it.

But it's not terrible, as she thought. It's not ugly, it's not painful. Prodding maybe, and a bit like a tiny, baby needle inserted in her skin.

But it's not  _bad._

"I think I missed you," she confesses then, in his ear, tucked away under the sharpness of his jaw, where she knows the words are safe and not easily stolen.

"I know I did," he says in her hair, and she knows  _that_ , too.

.

"I love you," he murmurs, when it's just the two of them, sitting on the garden with Bear in their arms, glasses by their feet and confetti thrown everywhere. "No matter what."

Looking at her future, Cheryl smiles. "I love you, too," she says, cupping his cheek, tickling his nose with her own. "No matter  _what._ "

Liam laughs, kissing her passionately. "I'd better hope so, future Mrs. Payne. Because there's no turning back afterwards. You'll be forever mine."

"Don't you know?" She asks, linking their fingers together. She stares into his eyes, finding peace there that she hasn't found in a while. She scans his face and sees Bear, their son.

She sees her past, her present and her future all warped together in the brightness of his smile and the softness of his cheek.

She sees it all, and she laughs.

"I already  _am._ "

.

**The end.**   
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHEESEBALLS.
> 
> If you read this, thank you.


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